Revolution Sybil Style Now!
by foojules
Summary: Sybil Crawley/Tom Branson modern AU: early 1990s. Sybil plays drums in a riot grrrl band! Tom is a bassist/bicycle mechanic! They meet at a rock show: love, lust and drama ensue. Rated M for profanity and, of course, adult situations.
1. Chapter 1

_AN: We'll see a few familiar faces besides Sybil and Tom in this first chapter. This will be a multi-chapter story; please let me know how you like it!_

* * *

Spring 1993

He thinks about playing music with her almost before he thinks about having sex with her. Almost.

Tom arrives at the pub after the opening band's soundcheck. This place is more conscientious than he's used to - most don't even bother with soundchecks. But then, most of Sack Thatcher's gigs are in grotty flats and council common rooms.

Will's van is already pulled up to the curb but the doors are still shut, equipment stacked inside. _We really need to get those windows tinted before we go on tour,_ Tom thinks. _Or else we'll get our gear nicked._

Inside, his guitarist Hinksy saunters up to him, can of lager in hand. Hinksy's real name is Rob but no one calls him that, except maybe his mum in Manchester. He's so habituated to punctuating his sentences with expletives that he barely talks when he goes to visit her at Christmas. "Tommy!" He greets his bassist ebulliently. "Splendid of you to show up. Have a fuckin' drink."

Tom nods toward the pocket-sized stage, where two battered amps and a drum kit - an incongruously nice Mapex one - are set up. "Who's opening?" He asks.

"All-bird band." Hinksy indicates the bar, where three girls are perched on rickety red-pleather stools. "Probably can't play for shit."

"Says the bloke who only knows power chords," Tom laughs. He walks over to say hello. Two of the band members are gingers, chattering and giggling over liquor drinks. The brunette on the end nurses a pint of Bass, following the conversation with smiles, not talking much. She's almost too pretty. Her eyes are wide and blue-grey under a layer of kohl; she turns them on him as he bellies up next to her.

"I assume you're in Sack Thatcher," she opens. It's a reasonable assumption, as the place is so far deserted except for them. She talks very posh.

"Yeah, I play bass. Tom." He offers his hand, and she shakes it firmly. "What do you call yourselves?"

"I'm Sybil, and we're the Rough Riders. I'm the drummer." She turns to introduce her bandmates, who break off their conversation to give him a once-over. "This is Gwen and Ethel."

He can tell right away that Ethel's the frontwoman. Her hair is short and spiky, she's dressed in a strategically ripped Bikini Kill T-shirt, and she radiates brass. _What a name, must've been her gran's or something..._ She doesn't smile, just nods briskly at him and takes another swig of her vodka tonic. Gwen is softer-looking, with her ruddy hair in long plaits, and gives him a friendly wave.

Sybil turns back to Tom. "We haven't played out much yet," she tells him. "Just a few parties."

"Yeah, us too," Tom replies. "We're going on tour in a couple of months. Mostly uni towns. And Manchester, Liverpool, round there. London, of course."

"Just in England?"

Tom doesn't say _Yes, we don't have daddies who'll pay for us to fly our gear to the continent._ The posh voice, the expensive drum kit: she's slumming. Still, she's cute and there's no reason to be a knob, so he just answers in the affirmative.

"That's really cool. I'd love to go on tour," she says a little wistfully. "I guess we have to have more than eight songs first." She laughs, her smile lighting up her face. "Our set's like, ten minutes long."

Tom laughs with her and orders a beer from the bartender, who has come over. "All right, Syb?" The guy asks, gesturing at her still half-full glass.

"Yes, I'm not getting pissed 'til after we play," Sybil replies primly.

"Oh, come on, let's do some shots!" Ethel interjects from down the bar. "Irish car bombs all round."

Sybil rolls her eyes at Tom. "Sorry." He's lived in Leeds four years, but Dublin will always be in his mouth.

"Eh, I'm used to it." He takes a swallow of his lager, the free band beer. No four-quid pints for him. He notices Will and Doug outside opening the van's doors. Hinksy, as usual, is nowhere to be seen. "I'd better go help load in," he excuses himself.

People filter in as Sack Thatcher are piling their equipment along the wall by the stage, and by the time Sybil and Gwen mount up there's a respectable enough crowd. Tom is surprised; usually the first band plays to a handful of drunks who sit at the bar and studiously ignore them. _They must have a lot of friends._

Tom watches as Gwen tunes her bass and Sybil makes sure that she has extra drumsticks within reach and her mics aren't in her way. Ethel has disappeared.

The sound guy, a fortyish caricature of an arrogant music geek, is rumbling impatiently by the time Ethel comes out of the bathroom. Stumbles, more like - she's obviously been doing more than drinking tonight. Still, as the Rough Riders launch into their opener, Tom finds himself nodding along from the back of the room. They're not exactly skilled - Ethel is particularly hopeless at playing guitar, and her bratty shout-singing is very much not his cup of tea - but the songs are sharp and catchy. And Sybil is _good_. She doesn't play standard rock nor punk beats. Her rhythms are much more complex and layered, and her face is calm, as if she's meditating. She and Gwen pretty much carry the set, though there's a knot of lesbians up front who are plainly here to see Ethel. Women, gay and straight, make up the most enthusiastic part of the audience; many of the men look mildly amused, as if watching a trio of children perform Shakespeare.

Hinksy sidles up to Tom, considerably more pissed than the last time he saw him. "They're better than I thought!" He bellows into Tom's ear over the whine of the guitar. "That drummer is fucking fit! Look at her tits bouncing around." Tom raises an eyebrow at him. "Oh, come on," Hinksy gestures at the stage. "Tell me _you _can look away."

He has a point.

They don't play longer than thirty minutes: Sybil's crack about the band's scant repertoire wasn't far off, although Ethel indulges in a considerable amount of between-song patter. Most of its content is obscured by the truly atrocious sound and Ethel's inebriation, but it seems to be a lot of rambling about the patriarchy. She yells "Revolution girl style NOW!" to kick off at least two songs. Tom wonders if wishing she'd get her own slogans makes him a bad feminist.

When the band finishes, the lesbians immediately go up to pay court to Ethel, who accepts a shot and a beer as her due. She stands at the front of the stage shooting the breeze while her bandmates break down the equipment around her.

Tom goes over to the side of the platform. "Need any help loading out?" He asks Sybil, who is briskly folding up her cymbal stands and sliding them into an ancient golf bag.

She glances up with a smile. "That'd be smashing." She looks over at Ethel and rolls her eyes. "She always does this. Such a rock star." The phrase is not a compliment.

"You need to get famous so you can have roadies," Tom jokes.

"Yeah, that won't be happening for a while." Gwen has gone for the van, so Tom and Sybil begin moving the gear out onto the pavement.

"It wouldn't surprise me. You're very good."

Sybil blows a lock of hair off her face as they manhandle a speaker cabinet out the door. "Don't patronise me," she says a little wearily. "I know we aren't, not yet anyway. The only people who come to see us are our friends or else want to get off with us."

Tom doesn't want to sound insincere, so he just insists, "Well, you're a great drummer. You're better than ours." Which is true. Will keeps the beat well enough, but he's not going to be pushing Keith Moon out of his place in the hall of fame any time soon.

"Thanks," Sybil replies carelessly. Doug sticks his head out the stage door.

"Tom!" He beckons. "Sound guy says we've got ten minutes to set up."

Tom sighs. "What a tosser. Can you two manage?"

"Of course. We do it all the time," Sybil says as Gwen's van pulls up to the curb.

-ooo-

She likes to stay soberish before gigs - too much drink makes her lose the rhythm - but sometimes lets herself go after she's done playing. By the time Sack Thatcher (_shame about that band name,_ she reflects) get started, Sybil has downed two shots and is working on a beer. After the week she's had, she figures she's entitled.

Monday she'd gotten back her paper for her Gender and Health Issues course. Sybil is used to doing well in school, but she's fallen off a bit lately, and Dr. Sanborn returned her essay well marked up in red pen. _Inconsistent. Unsubstantiated. This is not upper-level work,_ grumbled the neat round penmanship that stained every page. And next to the large red _64 _on the back page: _Ms Crawley, I know you are capable of better. Please see me._

So Sybil went. Dr. Sanborn's office was cramped - Women's Studies isn't a privileged discipline - but had a cosy feel, with ikat print wall hangings and pictures of her kids propped on the overstuffed bookshelves. Sybil sat down in a well-worn armchair and listened to the professor tell her how she'd enjoyed having Sybil in class, how insightful Sybil's contributions to the discussions have been, how she could understand that sometimes life got in the way and one ended up glossing over an important assignment. An assignment that determined one-third of your final grade.

"You know this department is small. We like to think of ourselves as a family," Dr. Sanborn told her. "We don't subscribe so much to the sink or swim philosophy here. Why don't you do some more work on this and re-submit it next Monday." The professor handed back her marked-up paper, whose many faults they'd been discussing. "I'll give you the higher mark, if you earn it."

Sybil didn't tell her that she'd almost rather take the poor grade than spend the weekend in the library, even if it meant she failed the course. She went home, threw the paper on her desk and didn't think about it for the rest of the week.

Then earlier today came the call from Mum. It started out following the usual script. She gave a rundown of Sybil's sisters' activities, editorializing along the way ("I don't know _why _Mary and Matthew don't want to have children. They'd make perfectly _wonderful _parents"); followed by an update on what Osiris had been up to that week ("I swear, Sybil, he's like Houdini. You can't leave him alone in the yard for a minute"). After that, however, the conversation took an uncomfortable turn.

"Sybil, darling," her mother said, "your father and I were just wondering if you'd given any thought to what you want to do after you're out of school. You do only have a couple of terms left, and if you want to apply to graduate schools..." She let the sentence hang.

Sybil hasn't been giving it any thought. In fact, she's been giving considerable thought to whether she even wants to finish school. Not being completely stupid, she didn't mention this to her mother... but that didn't prevent things deteriorating. The cherry on top was when Dad got on the extension and offered his opinion on how much a degree in public health was worth (exactly nothing).

"Why does my degree have to be worth anything?" Sybil retorted hotly. "Isn't that why I have a trust fund? So I don't have to worry about money?" Normally she's a little ashamed of her source of income, but she really wanted to end the conversation.

"Of course, darling," Mum said soothingly. "We just want you to be happy. We want you to have choices."

These perfectly reasonable and loving words put Sybil in a foul mood that even a well-played show can't touch. She wants things to recede and become pleasantly fuzzy around the edges. So when Ethel proposes the aforementioned Irish car bombs, Sybil gladly accompanies her to the bar even though the room's already shifting a little.

She drains the last of the curdled Bailey's from the bottom of her glass, orders another beer and turns round to watch Tom's band, now well into their set. It's straight-up punk rock, with a singer who should probably get a guitar: he doesn't seem to know what to do with himself, other than jump up and down awkwardly and clutch the microphone. The guitarist - she thinks Tom called him Hinksy - has more charisma, if not much technical skill. He throws himself into the music, flailing his body around and yelling backup with impressive conviction. He plays the right notes at least half the time.

Sybil likes to watch drummers, being one herself, and this one is entertaining enough: powerful, blurringly fast, tight. But Will is not the band member who has caught her attention. She watches Tom play, wondering why she's abashed to be checking him out. Unlike the frontman, Tom seems comfortable on stage: not standing stock-still, not moving artificially, just going with the music. He glances out at the room every so often, exchanges friendly banter with audience members between songs, smiles, has fun.

Toward the end of the set he looks back toward the bar and finds her in the gloom. She grins and he grins back widely, and she notices for the first time how blue his eyes are.

She decides then that she's going to take him home.

-ooo-

The sex is fun and not at all goal-oriented; they're both too far gone for that. Sybil takes a nice drunk and she's quite frolicsome. Tom doesn't remember exactly how it ends, or whether they finally just pass out tangled in one another's limbs. He does recall her going over to the desk drawer and getting out a condom for him.

When he wakes up with the sun streaming through the high windows, it takes him a split second to orient himself. He's got less of a hangover than he would've thought, considering the lagers he drank at the pub and then the wine here. She's still asleep, with her head buried under her pillow and an arm thrown across his chest. Tom thinks about whether he wants to try to leave without waking her, then remembers he never got her phone number. At that moment he decides that he does want to see her again.

He's due at the bike shop at ten, though, and a glance at the clock radio tells him it's 9:24. Better move things along. He stretches expansively with an audible yawn, dislodging her arm. She gives a little moan and rolls away, determinedly unconscious.

Feeling more than a bit foolish, he leans over and runs his hand over her back, then plants a few light kisses on her bare shoulders. "Sybil," he whispers into her ear. "Hey."

"Mmm," she murmurs, but doesn't open her eyes, which are smeared with mascara.

"I have to go to work," he tells her softly. "I need to get your number."

She groans, an unwilling wake-up noise, and stretches, her eyes showing slivers of white. "Can you just leave yours?" She asks sleepily. "I'm too hung over to move." She gives him a small, apologetic smile.

_Right._ He moves about the bedroom gathering his clothes - he thinks some of them are still out in the lounge - and goes out to the kitchen, where he finds a pen and paper and scrawls his name and number. He wonders whether he should write anything else: something pithy and clever, something that will make her smile. But he can't think of anything, so he leaves it at that and lets himself out of the flat.

_Well, that's that,_ he thinks.


	2. Chapter 2

_AN: Thanks so much for the reviews, and keep them coming! This chapter was already half written when I posted the first, so the next probably won't be up until next week. But there are plenty of developments to come!_

* * *

Six days later, she calls while he's at work.

"_Hi, Tom?"_ Her voice (there's no mistaking that voice) floats out of the answerphone and fills his flat. He fairly runs out of his room, where he was pulling off his oil-smeared work kit after pressing the "Review" button. _"It's Sybil. From the Rough Riders. The band you played with the other night?"_ Of course, from the band. From the _band_, not from the bloody amazing drunken shag that he'd written off as a one-night stand by now.

"_I was wondering if you wanted to get together sometime. There's a show on Friday where we could meet up..."_ She goes on to name a band - one he's heard of but not seen before - and a place. She leaves her number. Then there's a long pause, but no _beep _to signal the end of the message. _"...Sorry about that morning,"_ She finally continues. _"I really was a crap hostess, huh? Anyway, hope I'll hear from you." Beep._

His flatmate Quincy comes out of his bedroom, surprised to find Tom half naked in the lounge. "Who was that then?" he asks.

"Bird," Tom answers. "Met her at the gig Thursday last." Quincy gives him the obligatory attaboy leer and shuffles into the kitchen.

Tom picks up the phone and starts calling workmates to get his Saturday morning shift picked up. Just in case.

-ooo-

Sybil sips her pint slowly. It's fairly early and she doesn't want to be tipsy before Tom even gets here; she just wants to take the edge off. This is a bigger venue than anywhere the Rough Riders have been privileged to play. She's not particularly into any of the bands playing tonight but she needed a low-pressure activity to invite him to, and this fit the bill.

She's still embarrassed about how she acted the morning after he came over. Sure, maybe he was just there for sex, but she could have at least given him a cup of tea. _Granny would be shocked at my rudeness,_ she thinks, smirking. She flips through a zine, feeling awkward and wishing she'd gotten Gwen or Ethel to come along. It's not as if this is a date, exactly, and they could probably use a third person as a buffer. Or a chaperone.

"Hey!" Someone next to her suddenly exclaims: a blonde woman who looks a few years older than Sybil, twenty-four or -five. She seems familiar but Sybil can't place her. "You're the drummer in that band..." the girl considers, then snaps her fingers. "Rough Riders! I _loved _you guys!"

Sybil feels a rush of pleasure at her first time being recognized out-of-context. "Thank you!" She beams at the woman, who introduces herself and asks when they're playing again. "We don't have anything booked right now," Sybil admits.

"You should try to get a show at O'Brien's," the woman, Anna, tells her. "They have a lot of young bands. I'm friends with the guy who books there, I'll put in a word for you." Sybil knows the place: rather a dive out in Headingley. Em digs in her bag and pulls out a grubby business card. "I work in a studio too, if you're looking to record." _Anna Smith - Assistant Engineer,_ the card reads.

"Cheers." Sybil smiles at her again. Over Anna's shoulder she notices Tom bearing down on them. She turns her face toward him, glad that he hasn't come up on her reading alone at the bar like some kind of antisocial loser.

"Hi!" He greets Sybil with supreme awkwardness: at first he leans in as if to kiss her cheek, hesitates, then decides on a one-armed hug. Anna tosses a knowing look between them and excuses herself.

Confidence bolstered, Sybil regards Tom benevolently. "Want a drink?" She waves the bartender over.

He gives a short laugh. "I can get my own," he tells her just a touch waspishly. "And yours too, if you want something."

She sighs inwardly. _Was it that I'm female, or that I have a nice flat my daddy's paying for?_ "Bass," she says.

Tom leans back against the bar. "That came out wrong," he says, flashing her a rueful grin. "I didn't mean to sound tetchy at a girl buying me a drink."

Sybil raises an eyebrow. "Well, I know some men would go thirsty first." He glances away for a moment and she takes the opportunity to admire the way his worn jeans fall on his hips.

"I'm not one of them. I'm all for female equality. Especially if it results in free beer," he jokes.

"If you're not for women's equality, you'd better keep it to yourself around me," Sybil tells him archly, raising her eyes quickly. "I'm a Women's Studies minor."

He's actually fairly knowledgeable about third wave feminism, she finds. He tells her that he likes the energy of the riot grrrl movement - "People say they can't play, but punks can't either" - which leads to discussing music. He talks about Sack Thatcher's upcoming tour; she recounts her meeting with the recording engineer.

"She said she really liked us, but I don't know if this is the sort of music I want to be playing forever," Sybil confesses. "It's not really what I listen to; It's more Ethel's thing." She tells him about meeting Ethel - or rather, Ethel waylaying her into a friendship - their first year in uni. Before Ethel dropped out.

"At this point, the band's mainly about having a laugh with your friends, right?" Tom asks. "If you want to play more seriously, you won't have any trouble finding another band. A good drummer's always in demand."

"Yeah, and I'm sure the novelty of a _girl _drummer doesn't hurt," Sybil says acerbically. "Sometimes you'd think it was a monkey with knockers up there playing, the way people act!"

"Well, they're wankers." Tom is halfway through his second pint and the tension in his shoulders and gut is starting to loosen. When he looks over and she grins at him, he feels it dissipate completely.

The warm-up band starts playing and they're rubbish, even taking into account the purposefully crap sound that is the opening act's due. Sybil rolls her eyes and shouts at Tom over the cacophony: "Want to get out of here?"

-ooo-

They've adjourned to a booth in a nearby local, where the juke box seems to be exclusively stocked with midcentury American country-western songs. They have half-pints and a plate of chips and in violation of all laws of first dates - for that is undoubtedly what this has become - they are talking politics.

"I'm not an anarchist!" Tom laughs. "You've totally misunderstood me. I just said - "

"That government had utterly failed," Sybil finishes. "Your very words."

"Failed to close the gap between the rich and the poor! They _say _the recession's over, but - " he breaks off, studying her. "You're taking the piss."

The corners of her mouth twitch. "Maybe a little."

"That's not nice," he says, trying not to smile. "Ahh, what would you know about it anyway. I'll bet you don't even know any poor people."

"But I do," Sybil says. "Hardly any of my friends grew up with money. Gwen's dad was a miner, in fact."

"And your father the earl is fine with you being best friends with a miner's daughter?"

"Of course," Sybil replies, getting rather piqued with this line of questioning. Since she let slip that she's not just wealthy, but an actual aristocrat, Tom's mentioned it at least twice. "He's really terribly nice, you know," she explains. "Both my parents are."

"I'm sure." Very neutral.

"They have no concept of how the world is, though," Sybil can't keep herself from continuing. "They live in this big country house they call 'the cottage' and spend their days puttering round the garden. Sometimes my mum gets involved in charity events and things, but they seem perfectly happy just bumbling along together."

"That actually sounds like a nice retirement," Tom comments.

"Retirement maybe. But they've never _done _anything to retire from!" Sybil shakes her head. "I'd be bored stiff."

"Well, I know my mam for one wouldn't say no to a bit of boredom," Tom says. "She had five kids to bring up on her own. I don't think she's been bored a day in her life."

Sybil looks at him, abashed. "I didn't mean to..." she trails off, not knowing how to continue. _Didn't mean to talk about my rich parents to you and make you feel bad?_

Tom smiles. "Oh, no, it's fine," he says. "Just funny to hear how the other half lives, is all."

He tells her a few stories about his own upbringing as the second eldest, with a single mother who still works as a waitress. "One day she comes home with this bloody saxophone for me," he says. "I still don't know how she managed it. Or why a saxophone." He learned to play it, though, leading to an illustrious career in secondary-school jazz band and a uni scholarship. "I dropped out after three years and moved here," he finishes. "To become a rock star-cum-bicycle mechanic."

"And how is that working out?"

"Not too badly," he returns with a smirk. "The birds do like a man with grease on his hands."

"You don't have greasy hands!" She reaches out to capture one of his hands in hers, pretending to inspect it. Truth be told, it's a bit black around the callouses and under the close-trimmed nails, but it is well scrubbed. Sybil holds onto it for a moment, running her fingers lightly over his palm. She raises her gaze and finds his bright eyes holding hers with that same look she remembers from last week, and a little thrill goes through her.

The pub closes, spilling its patrons out of the carved doors. Tom and Sybil walk a little way down the street and then pause, hovering expectantly. He moves first to embrace her. She raises her lips to his; the kiss becomes more kisses, with Sybil backed up against the display window of a closed shop.

Finally Tom offers, "I'm not far away. Fancy a drink? I think I've got a bottle of something."

Sybil ponders a moment. She decides on directness. "I'm really attracted to you," she says, looking straight into his eyes. "I'm not really looking for a boyfriend or anything."

He blinks, glances away and then back. "That's all right," he tells her. "We can just... see what happens." He gently takes his hands from her shoulders and turns to face down the street. "How about I walk you home."

_I guess this means I'm not getting laid tonight,_ Sybil thinks as she falls into step with him. Truthfully, she's not disappointed; there's a seed of something here. After all, _not looking for a boyfriend_ doesn't mean she can't get to know him better.


	3. Chapter 3

_AN: I'll refrain from overt S3 spoilers... but I will say that I intend to keep writing this story! Maybe it'll help me get over my disappointment._

_Thanks as always for the reviews, follows and favorites! They are very motivating. I hope you're enjoying reading this story as much as I enjoy writing it._

_And now I'll go back to imagining Julian Fellowes steepling his fingers and hissing "exxxssscellent..." :)_

* * *

May 1993

Sack Thatcher has a festival show just outside the city at a farm that's been turned into a sometime skate park. Cows congregate in the pasture outside the fenced area, calmly regarding the kids whizzing by on the splintery homemade halfpipe, as Will's van pulls up behind the makeshift stage.

"What the hell kind of gig is this?" Doug demands of Hinksy, who booked it. "Playing to a bunch of cows and skater kids."

Hinksy shrugs. "Should be more people here later." He opens the side door and shambles off in search of a keg.

"Another bloody waste of time," Doug complains. They've played a couple of gigs since the one with the Rough Riders, both to sparse and indifferent audiences.

"The Frog and Duck show had a pretty good crowd," Tom counters from the front passenger seat. They'd actually been paid.

"They were all there to see the other band," Will puts in. "That chick band. We should play more shows with them, get the dyke brigade," he jokes. Tom gives him a glare. "What? Don't get all self-righteous just because you're getting off with their drummer."

Tom scoffs but lets it go. As a matter of fact, he hasn't seen much of Sybil lately; she's been busy. She's on summer break from uni, but besides having band practice she volunteers at an NHS centre in Leeds Central. She's also been helping her mother plan a fundraising do for the Red Cross.

"I'd really rather be planning things that normal people might be able to be involved in," Sybil told him exasperatedly on the phone the other night. "Tell me, would you pay five hundred pounds to play a round of golf?" He would not. He's never played golf.

He told her about the show, but doesn't have much hope that she'll show up: apparently her sister Edith is visiting their parents, and Sybil's going to "the cottage" for the afternoon.

-ooo-

"Do you want tea, darling?" Cora helps Sybil off with her jacket and hangs it in the hall cupboard. "We're all in the parlor."

"I'd love some," Sybil says gratefully. Spring or not, it's chilly outside.

"How was the drive?" Cora inquires of Edith, who answers that it was lovely, thank you. Ahead of them in the hall, Sybil rolls her eyes; she spent the entire way up from Leeds clutching the grip handle and thinking each curve might be their last.

Robert stands as his wife and daughters enter the parlor. The Dowager Countess of Grantham remains seated, scowling benevolently at them all. As usual, she's immaculately turned out in a pressed pant suit, silver hair carefully coiffed and cheeks delicately rouged. Sybil can no more picture Granny in sweat pants and slippers than she can imagine John Lydon donning a powder-blue tuxedo and singing show tunes.

"Hello, Dad," Edith greets, as they find seats. "Granny, how are you?"

"I get along. Rose keeps me in shape," Violet replies, referring to her housekeeper-stroke-hairdresser. "I honestly don't know what I'd do without her. Sybil, dear, come sit beside me. You'd think you lived in London as well as your sister, as little as I see you these days. Another lump, please, Cora, I'm old enough to have it as sweet as I like."

Sybil obeys, settling herself on the sofa. "How's the latest book going, Edith?"

"Ohhh, lovely so far. I've got past the meet-cute and now I'm into the stage where my protagonist hates the sight of her love interest." Edith writes romance novels under the pen name Lavinia Swire; she's rather successful.

"So when's this one set?" Robert asks, trying and failing to keep the disdain out of his voice. His disappointment that Edith hasn't made more of her literary talent is not a secret, and it's a bone of contention between them.

"The Edwardian era. The 1910s. I've had to do such a lot of research," Edith explains, "about how the great houses worked and so forth. Lords back then had absolute armies of servants - their houses were so huge, they had to have, just to keep the place up."

"I can't imagine," Cora murmurs. The Crawleys' seat has been gone for decades, sold to pay back taxes.

"I remember. Things were so much better kept up then," Violet reminisces, "but then the second world war came and everyone scattered to the winds." She sighs. "Change is indeed the rule, more's the pity." She turns to her older granddaughter. "How are things going with your Anthony, dear? Any new developments?"

"If you mean are we getting married, no. We're quite happy going on as we are," Edith answers, with the air of someone traveling familiar ground.

"Granny, things are different now," Sybil puts in. "People don't have to be married to be committed." Edith shoots her a grateful look.

"Oh, I know that," Violet rues, "But I will never understand it. I do know that no man has ever bought a car that he can drive for free every day. My dear, are you quite all right?" Sybil has been seized with a sudden attack of coughing.

"Fine, just fine," she says, lips twitching.

"And what have you been up to?" Violet asks her. "Have you met any nice men in that dreadful city?" To Violet, every city is dreadful; to hear her tell it, she lies awake at night imagining the horrible things that might be happening to her granddaughters. Sybil, for her part, has no doubt that her grandmother sleeps like a baby.

"Oh, you know how busy I am," Sybil replies after a sip of tea. "There's volunteering, and the band, and school... I hardly have time to sleep these days!" She looks down a beat too long. She raises her gaze to find her grandmother's flinty but not entirely unkind eyes fixed on her, seemingly looking into her thoughts.

"Oh," Violet says casually. "Indeed." And she waits.

An incriminating blush rises to Sybil's cheeks. She holds out for a few seconds, waiting to see if someone will change the subject, but apparently no one is inclined to rescue her. _Oh, what's the difference._ "I've sort of been seeing someone. Not seriously or anything."

"Do tell!" Edith sits up, glad to have the attention focused on someone else. "What does he do?"

Sybil hadn't thought this far. "We met at a show where our bands played together. He's a bassist."

"Oh, a _musician_," Edith laughs, shaking her curls. "Well, if you want my advice, you'll run far away!"

_I don't._ "He does have a job," Sybil retorts.

"What's his name, darling?" Cora asks. "Where does he work?" Sybil tells her, and she and Robert exchange distinctly underwhelmed glances.

"So Sybil's got herself a grease monkey," Edith remarks with a mean little twist of her mouth that Sybil remembers from their childhood.

"Really, Edith, I didn't know you were such a snob," Sybil snaps. "Like I said, it's nothing serious. I've hardly had time to talk to him in the last two weeks."

Violet gives her a placatory pat on the knee. "Well, dear, you're certainly allowed to have a bit of fun while you're young," she concludes. "Now then. Robert, when were you going to get someone over to help you put in the garden?"

-ooo-

The light is leaching from the sky by the time Sack Thatcher plays, and Hinksy's prediction has been made good: the grass before them is thronged with people. Beer has been flowing for hours and the crowd is boisterous. The band has hardly begun their set before a churning mosh pit opens up in front of the stage, rotating like a galaxy. The negative gravitational force of the pit pushes the more faint-hearted in the audience back to stand at the fringes, laughing and shoving away any sweaty bodies that might encroach on their space.

The band feeds off the energy and it's a good set. Even Doug seems at ease onstage for once. Tom scans the audience once or twice, but it's too dark to make out any individuals. He quickly gets caught up in the throb of the bass, the satisfying ache in his fingertips, the undulating of the multitude.

By the time they finish his hair is hanging in his face, dripping with sweat. It's gotten even colder since the sun went down, but the air feels cool and pleasant on his skin. As soon as the equipment is in the van he walks away from the stage, towards the fence that marks the cow pasture, and looks up at more stars than Leeds ever has.

And almost jumps out of his skin a few moments later when he hears Sybil's "hey" from behind.

"Sorry," she says, "I was trying not to scare you." She smiles apologetically.

His heart is still pounding. He's surprised by how happy he is to see her, how much he's missed seeing her. "Hi!" He greets, enfolding her in a hug. "Did you just get here? We've already played."

"Yeah, I had Edith drop me off after dinner. It's definitely not her scene." An ironic smile touches her lips. She seems to be in a pensive mood; he wonders what she's doing at a raucous gathering like this. _She's __here to see you, tosser, _an irritated voice says in his head. Tom isn't used to doubt, and it chafes him like a scratchy jumper.

"D'you want a beer?" He offers. "There's a keg. I think the next band's about to start." She shakes her head and sits down on the ground with her back against the fence, patting the grass next to her. He joins her and they are silent for a few minutes, bathed in the ancient, gentle light of the stars.

"How was it?" She finally asks.

"Good. Great. Everyone's drunk."

She laughs a little at that. "Sorry I missed it."

"I'm glad you're here now."

They fall silent again, but doubt keeps wiggling in Tom's mind. Sybil seems to be giving consideration to something; he can almost hear the thoughts banging around in her head. He wonders how well he'll handle what he thinks she's going to tell him, disarmed and depleted as he is right now.

Or she could just be gazing at the sky.

The next band starts playing, propulsive rhythms echoing into soft nonsense across the distance between them and the stage. This shakes Sybil out of her reverie, and she stands. "When are you leaving?" She asks over the music.

Tom gets up too and glances across the field toward the van. "Pretty soon, I'd imagine. You want us to drop you home?" _Of course,_ he thinks, _she wouldn't say it here. Not without a ride back to town._

"No." She puts her hand on his arm, looks up into his face. "Can we go to your flat?" She asks.

Tom looks at her in surprise, saying nothing, and she continues. "I want us to be together tonight." She dispels any uncertainty about what she means by kissing him, caressing his tongue with hers, her body pressed tightly against his. Tom's stomach drops pleasantly.

"Absolutely," he answers, as soon as he's able.

-ooo-

Her candor seems to have paid off, because there's no dancing around once they get up to his flat: he leads her straight to his bedroom and puts on a CD. _"Oh my lover/Don't you know it's all right..."_ She wouldn't have pegged him as a PJ Harvey fan, but she approves. Anyway, it's loud and intense enough to drown out the two of them in the next room.

They drift toward the bed together, kissing enthusiastically. Sybil's memory of their first night together is as hazy as Tom's, but she remembers it being playful, vigorous, not terribly erotic. This is completely different. When he brushes her skin with his hand, she feels it everywhere. When he moves his lips over her throat, she moans aloud.

"Is this all right?" He asks before he unbuttons her blouse.

"Yes," she mutters. "It's all right. It's _all _all right." She straddles his legs and peels his T-shirt off as they both sit up on the bed.

Hair mussed, he grins up at her. "Well, I'm glad to have that decision out of the way." He lies down, pulling her down on top of him, and runs his hands up her back. His kisses are deep, soft and deliberate, easing her rather frantic pace; Sybil moves her hands to his face and strokes his temples, his hair. She breathes in his smell, soap and sweat and just a hint of... bicycle grease? It's nice.

Feeling his fingers fumble a bit at her bra clasp, she sits up and takes it off. The look in his eyes when she moves his hands to her breasts gets her even more turned on. They roll over so he's on top; he murmurs "What do you like?" before kissing her neck just underneath her ear.

"Mmmm," she moans, and whispers into his ear. He looks up at her with a wicked half-smile and _God, he's so fucking sexy,_ she thinks as he brushes her collarbone with his lips.

Sybil is consumed with impatience, but Tom does everything with exquisite slowness. She's trembling with anticipation by the time he tugs off her trousers and underwear, but he will not be rushed; his mouth moves softly over her belly, her hipbones, her inner thigh. Finally (_finally!_) he reaches the place that is, at this moment, her center.

She lets out a low "Ohhh" as his tongue touches her, moving her hips up towards him; she can't help it. Still he won't hurry. He explores, caresses, teases, sensing just where her edge is. Again and again he brings her up to it and backs off, until she whimpers "Oh God, Tom, please," and he goes on, grasping her hips and riding it out with her as she bucks on the bed.

For a few moments she can only lie back, closing her eyes and letting out a satisfied sigh. Tom kisses her belly, relishing the taste of her on his lips; then he rises up to kiss her mouth. Sybil embraces him with arms and legs, rubbing the back of his neck, until they break off the kiss and she smiles.

"That was..." she pauses, then just gives a little shake of her head and her own wicked smile. "Now it's your turn," she says, and pulls him back to her.

Tom wanted to take his time with this as well, but making her come has increased his own desire for her to a level where he's about ready to spend in his jeans. In any case, she's fumbling with his zipper.

_Calm down,_ he thinks. _Just enjoy it._ He tries desperately to think cool, neutral thoughts. It had been a while for him, before the last time. He regains some semblance of control before helping her remove his pants.

"Do you have...?" Her eyebrows rise inquiringly.

"Mmm-hm." He busses her on the forehead, pushes up off the bed and goes over to the dresser. His mind travels unbidden to a possible future where this won't be necessary; but he's getting ahead of himself. _It'll slow things down a bit, anyway._

They move into each other and his bed begins to squeak as they speed up. Sybil giggles lightly but keeps going, trying to match her rhythm with his. After a clumsy moment or two they've got it; she undulates her hips deliciously, increasing his pleasure as she goes after her own. "Jesus, Sybil," he moans into her hair. In a little while her breath explodes in small cries, her back arches and she clenches his hips even more closely to hers. Tom lets himself go then, his mind going blank except for the sweetness of release and the feel of her skin against his.

-ooo-

Sybil rests her head in the hollow of his shoulder, caressing his chest with light fingertips. "Tom Branson," she murmurs huskily, "where did you learn to do that?"

He grins. "Here and there. And I like to work hard and get good at the things I especially enjoy doing. Ow!" She's given his nipple a squeeze. He captures her hand and squeezes it gently, rubs his thumb over her knuckles.

"So your motives weren't entirely unselfish, then," she teases him.

"Course not. Blokes who won't go down on a woman don't know what they're missing. Even aside from the gratitude - ahh, Sybil!" She's tickling him. He wiggles away from her.

"Well, you've got mine." She sits up, pulling up the sheet to cover herself, and looks down into his face. "My eyes have been opened," she declaims with mock drama. He remembers how young she is, wonders how many men - or how many boys? - there've been in her life. _It's none of my business._

"So I suppose you've had quite a lot of experience, then," she says, just as he's finishing that thought. So much for discretion.

"I had a girlfriend for a long time," he replies. "Actually, we moved here together."

"What happened?" She drops her eyes. "If you don't mind me asking."

He thinks of packed boxes that sat in a corner of the lounge for weeks, how one day he came home from work and they were gone. He presses his lips together. "We... grew apart, I guess. It happens to a lot of people." He shrugs. "It ended up being for the best."

Sybil's head is down, hair curtaining her face. "I've only had a couple of boyfriends," she tells him. "Nothing that serious, guys from school. And there were a few blokes I was just with once or twice." Her tone is casual, but her eyes flick upward to watch his reaction to that.

_Including me, so far._ He rubs her upper arm. "I've had my share of those too," he says. He wonders if he should reassure her that he doesn't really care how many people she's slept with, but decides against it. Instead he reaches up to guide her head back down to his shoulder and kiss the top of it. "You going to sleep over?" He asks her.

"Why not," she yawns.


	4. Chapter 4

_AN: This isn't a very eventful chapter: just a little further development and setting things up for the future. To compensate for that, Mary makes an appearance - of course _she _has to weigh in on her little sister's choice of (non-)boyfriend. More drama, angst and hotness are definitely on the horizon!_

* * *

He wakes up to the rustle of papers sliding off the desk.

Sybil looks guiltily over her shoulder. "Sorry." She leans down to gather the typed sheets. "I was just -"

"Destroying my system. I know." Tom grins at her. _At least it wasn't the typewriter_. He yawns and stretches mightily, reaching out towards her. "Aren't you cold?" She's only put her shirt and underwear back on.

Her head is bent over the papers she's picked up. "What is this, anyway?" She sits down on the edge of the bed.

"Some articles for the _Independent_. I review records and things."

"Really?" She looks impressed. "You're a journalist then. Why didn't you ever say?" She scans the top sheet. "This doesn't look like a review."

Tom sits up and cranes his neck to see what she's got. "That's a pitch for a news feature. I've been writing mostly arts and culture stuff up 'til now," he admits. "I don't know if they'll be too keen to have me cover politics."

"Why not?"

"I'm not exactly qualified. I never even took a degree." He realizes how self-effacing he's being and shuts up. Apparently Sybil's not the only thing he's insecure about.

She reads further down the paper and her brow knits. "'A more balanced look at IRA activity in England'? You're trying to drum up sympathy for terrorists?"

"Not sympathy. I don't think they go about things the right way. But there's more than one side to the story."

"Maybe, but they don't make their case stronger by blowing people up! Are you planning on taking a more 'balanced' look at that poor bloke who died in London last month?"

Tom presses his lips together. "Don't judge until you've seen the piece. Which I haven't actually started yet. I'm still trying to get the paper to let me write it, and then I've got to do the actual reporting..."

"You know these people? They'll talk to you?"

"I've got some contacts. We Irishmen all know each other." He grins as he offers the trope, trying to lighten the mood.

She looks at him doubtfully. "It sounds dodgy. Those guys don't mess about, Tom."

Tom exhales noisily. "Yeah, that's what my editor says." He shrugs. "If it makes you feel any better, I'll do a piece about women drummers in west Yorkshire. It'll be very short. That more your speed?"

"Yes. Yes, it is." Sybil replaces the papers on his desk and wriggles back under the covers with him. "I can't believe you've never told me you're a writer!" She gives a shake of her head. "I wonder what my sister the romance novelist would have to say about _that_," she muses a little spitefully.

_Oh, right._ "How'd your visit go?"

"Fine, I suppose." There's a short, heavy silence, during which Sybil takes his hand and pretends to study it. "My family can be so disappointing sometimes," she says slowly.

"What do you mean?" He has an inkling. _Well, I knew I wasn't going to pass muster with the bloody Earl of Grantham_. He's surprised and pleased if Sybil told her family about him at all, though.

She turns over and gives him a quick kiss on the mouth. "Nothing. I've got to go. I'm scheduled on the ward this afternoon."

Maybe he's wrong; maybe she was talking about something else. But she did sound awfully happy to find out he has ambitions beyond playing the bass and spending the rest of his days elbow-deep in bicycle grease.

She starts to get out of bed. "Do you want to have breakfast?"

Tom checks the clock. "We could, on the way to the bike shop." He sits up and catches her hand, tugs her back down into an embrace. "Or we could just skip it."

He goes to work hungry.

-ooo-

Sybil could kick herself for having said anything. It's bad enough that she sounded like such a reactionary about the IRA; now she's probably given the impression that the Crawleys have judged Tom, sight unseen, and found him wanting. Way to reinforce the stereotype of Tory snobbery.

_Who says he'll ever meet them, though?_ She can't pretend that things between her and Tom are still casual; she put an arrow in that notion herself last night. After her family's display of condescension, though, she's in no hurry to introduce them.

It's a difficult shift at the hospital. Sybil considers herself pretty good with people, but today the patients are especially peevish. Sybil's distracted and can do no right. Even the staff, who usually tolerate the volunteers with amiable resignation, snap at her all afternoon. It's a blessed relief to get home and have a real shower: she was so rushed earlier she'd just had time for a quick one.

The telephone rings as she's toweling off. She gets to it just before the answerphone picks up. "Sybil?" A female voice. "How lovely, I've caught you."

"Mary!" Sybil greets her sister with real pleasure. They've been playing phone-tag for the last month. "How are you? How's work?"

"Oh, it's a slog," Mary says happily. "Of course they've got me doing all the scut work since I'm the most junior. I'm a perfect Cinderella. In fact, I can't talk very long; I just wanted to check in."

"It sounds miserable." Sybil smiles. Mary isn't happy unless she's working twelve-hour days. "So has Matthew convinced you to have a baby yet?"

"Not unless he can bring back the wet-nursing profession," Mary replies lightly. She changes the subject. "I spoke to Mum today."

"Mm." There's only one place this can be going: Mary's tone is a little too breezy.

A moment of silence on the other end of the line; then Mary makes a sally. "Aren't you going to ask what she told me about you?"

Sybil parries. "Oh? Did she tell you something about me?"

"Sybil, darling, don't be disingenuous. Who's this Tom person?"

She feels like she's a teenager again. "It sounds to me as if you already know who he is."

"I wanted to hear it from you," Mary says. Another significant pause. "More importantly, is it serious at all? Have you slept with him?"

"Mary!" _She always does come right to the point._

"Oh, don't act so shocked. And don't tell me it's none of my business," Mary insists. "You're my baby sister and of course it is."

It's only fair, Sybil supposes. Mary certainly shared enough about her own romantic exploits during her college and law school days - bowdlerized some in the early years, but as Sybil recalls she had a thing for professors.

"Well, I -"

"I hope he's taking care of you," Mary says knowingly, "and that you're having a good time."

Sybil starts giggling. "I've no complaints," she manages. "I love how everyone's so determined that I have _fun_. Sow my wild oats before I settle down with an Oxford man and have six babies."

"God, no one expects _that_." Mary sounds mildly horrified. "Mum seemed to think this was rather a fling, though. Isn't it?"

"It's too early to tell. Maybe." Sybil adjusts the towel around herself. "I do like him."

"Ah. Well, in that case, tell me all about him."

Sybil fills her in on the main points, not omitting Tom's journalistic aspirations.

"He sounds marvelous," Mary comments. A little dryly, to Sybil's ears.

"Mum and Dad and Granny and Edith didn't seem to think so."

"We just want you to be happy," Mary responds. "You are being safe?" She asks with a note of concern.

"Mary! I'm a public health major! _And _an adult. I do know what I'm doing."

"I don't doubt it," Mary replies, in that maddening older-sister tone that tells Sybil she absolutely doubts it.

-ooo-

Mary rings off and goes back to the case files on her desk. After a few minutes, she leans back and pinches the bridge of her nose. The sound of the telly filters in from the lounge, where Matthew is pretending to look over a brief of his own, and right now she'd like nothing better than to go in there and curl up on the sofa next to him with her feet in his lap. But one doesn't make partner before thirty-five by knowing the finer plot points of _Keeping Up Appearances_.

So Sybil's in love, then. Or headed that way, despite her protestations. Mary's always been in tune with her youngest sister, and she could hear it in Sybil's tone of voice, in the words she didn't say.

Mary doesn't share Mum's antiquated concerns about Sybil making a good match: she's more conservative than Sybil, but she's no snob. She does worry about fundamental incompatibility, the lack of shared experiences, small misunderstandings that blow up into large conflicts: all the landmines in a relationship between people of such very different backgrounds. This _Tom _sounds idealistic and hotheaded, which does not bode well.

Mary sighs and once again bends over the desk. _God knows, I broke my heart often enough when I was her age. _Sybil is an adult, as she herself pointed out. All Mary can do is be there for her when all's said and done.

-ooo-

At band practice the next night, Ethel is even more impossible than usual. The Rough Riders can't seem to get through a song without her falling apart. Sybil's started trying to just forge ahead when Ethel loses the thread - at least she and Gwen can get some sort of rehearsal - but Ethel refuses to even try to pick it back up.

"Sorry, guys," she mumbles after the eighth abortive run-through of "Your Wicked Envy." "Let's start again. I think I've got it now."

Even the angelically patient Gwen has indulged in an eye-roll or two, and Sybil's ready to stab their guitarist with a drumstick. "Let's take a break," she suggests, with as much calm as she can muster, and stands up before Ethel can protest.

Ethel's hands shake as she leans against a PA speaker and lights a cigarette. She's been guzzling water tonight. _She must be hung over,_ Sybil thinks pitilessly. Ethel's been in some sort of altered state, or recovering from it, every time Sybil's seen her lately - which admittedly hasn't been that often. She's always been a bit flaky, but she seems to have fallen into a spiral since dropping out of uni last winter.

Sybil's surprised and abashed by how angry this makes her. It's one thing to learn in classes, and even to see in the hospital, the extent to which addiction is an illness; it's quite another to watch someone you care about destroy her life with what looks like complete indifference.

Ethel's also ruining the band, though, and that's what Sybil really has a hard time forgiving. The Rough Riders have been Sybil's outlet and her escape for more than a year. At one time she thought they might be more than that, though this hasn't seemed like a real possibility since the initial flush of promise after the early gigs. Now practice is always a struggle, and though Ethel can usually pull it together for shows, her

instability is showing more and more.

And now she's nattering on again about getting a gig at O'Brien's. Sybil's pushed her off, hoping she'll straighten out a bit, but she's been pressing about it ever since finding out about the meeting with Anna. "That's a really good studio she works in, too," she repeats for the tenth time. Sybil and Gwen exchange glances, but neither of them mention that recording should probably wait until they can get through a song at least once. "Syb, why don't you ring her up? We can all go out for drinkies and talk about it."

"I don't think there's much to talk about," Sybil demurs. "I think she'd be happy to try and get us a show based on what she's already seen." The last thing she wants is for Anna to see how fucked up Ethel really is.

"Well, give her a ring, then!" Ethel commands. "I need to play a show. I miss being on stage."

"Ethel - " Gwen begins, looking purposeful, and Sybil wonders if this is to be the match that lights the conflagration. There'll be one sooner or later.

Ethel rounds on her. "What?" Gwen shrinks.

_Not tonight. _"I'll ring Anna tomorrow," Sybil breaks in soothingly. "Let's play some more."

-ooo-

Tom has his hands full for the next fortnight. Sack Thatcher's tour will last almost a month: four weeks of playing shitty dives and community centres in nearly every uni town and city of any size in England, and some of the suburbs as well. He's been working overtime for months trying to save money, but now he needs to pick up as much work as he can while packing his gear (two pairs of jeans, four T-shirts, twelve pairs of boxers, and eighteen pairs of socks) and finishing up the articles and the pitch he's promised the _Independent_.

Still, he and Sybil find time to spend together... usually in lieu of sleep.

The band's practice schedule has been cut to once a week, just enough to keep them in reasonable shape for their send-off gig at O'Brien's. They'll get plenty tight on tour, playing every night. Playing has always been its own reward for Tom, and it's a good thing, too. They're going to play a third of their shows to a handful of drunks or kids, and count themselves lucky if they don't end up hundreds of pounds in the hole.

They've worked hard for this: all of them, even Hinksy. But there are times during these two weeks - usually in the predawn hours, lying on his side with his body spooned around Sybil's - times when he wonders what it's all for. Maybe he's getting too old for this.

And then he thinks: _What if things go the way we think we want them to?_ If they have a string of great shows, build a larger following, happen to catch the attention of a record label - what then? Nights in the studio in addition to day jobs. More touring. Money will be slow in coming, if it ever does.

Maybe he should just suck it up and join a blues cover band. Rehearsal twice a week, shows twice a month, time for a writing career and a life. The thought pains him: it feels like giving up. But it's also seductive.

Especially now. He doesn't need a reminder of the main thing that's changed: she's sleeping beside him.


	5. Chapter 5

_AN: This is a long one! I know I'm going out on a bit of a limb with Sybil and especially Anna here, so you'll have to let me know if you think their actions are true to their (modernized) characters. For my part I don't see Anna as necessarily being a goody-goody. :)_

* * *

June 1993

Sybil keeps her promise to contact Anna, who suggests heading to O'Brien's together one afternoon. She says that Thomas, her acquaintance there, prefers to meet people in person before booking them. Anna lives north of the campus, not too far from O'Brien's but outside of the student area. Going to pick her up, Sybil's a bit surprised at how neat her little bungalow is from the outside. She'd formed a rather more bohemian picture of a pub-hopping assistant recording engineer. There are even potted herbs flourishing on the front porch.

Sybil knocks on the door and, hearing a "Come in!" yelled from the recesses of the house, opens it. "I'm in here!" Anna's voice floats out of the kitchen, along with some wounded-sounding yet hypnotic music. The place is cleaner than any twentysomething's home has a right to be, despite the fluffy gray cat that materializes to rub against Sybil's shin. There are concert posters all over the walls: The Jesus and Mary Chain, Dead Can Dance, Sonic Youth, other bands that Sybil's never heard of.

"Hiya!" Anna greets her brightly from the sink. "Sorry, I'll be done with this in a jiffy."

"It's fine," Sybil replies. "Need any help?"

"Oh, no. John'll do whatever I don't finish. He's even more of a clean-freak than I am." Anna smiles over her shoulder. "He's my boyfriend. Fiance, I mean. We just got engaged!" She flits over without turning off the water to show Sybil a thin silver band with a small diamond. "I suppose I should take that off when I'm washing up, shouldn't I?"

"Congratulations," Sybil tells her warmly, taking a seat at the table. "What does he do?"

"John? He tends bar." Anna turns off the faucet, hangs the dishcloth over it and comes over to sit with Sybil. "He used to work at O'Brien's but they had a _huge _falling out." She rolls her eyes. "I'm surprised they'll even talk to me there; I may not be much help to you after all." She bounds to her feet, not two minutes after she sat down. "Ready to go? I'm dying for a pint."

O'Brien's is apparently modeled on grotty Irish pubs the world over. The place has the requisite stamped tin ceiling; what light manages to straggle in through the dingy windows seems stained grayish-brown; and a permanent layer of grime coats every surface. The only concession to its questionable status as a music venue is a raised wooden platform, currently supporting a scarred pair of speakers, at one end of the long room, and a makeshift sound booth at the other. _God, this really is a dive,_ Sybil thinks.

The woman behind the bar is rail-thin, with a scowl that seems etched into her face. Her front hair is curled into elaborate ringlets that bounce jauntily with every movement she makes, at odds with her sour expression. "What'll it be, then?" She demands as Anna and Sybil seat themselves.

"All right, Sarah?" Anna greets her with a determinedly friendly air. "Two pints of cider, please." She glances about the place as Sarah pours their drinks. "Thomas around?"

"In the back. He should be out in two shakes."

Anna whispers to Sybil that Sarah is the O'Brien of the pub's name: she co-owns the place with a silent partner. "Supposedly it's a front for his chemicals trade," Anna mutters a little too loudly, because the woman scowls even more deeply at them as she bangs down their glasses. It's like being caught out in church: Sybil and Anna titter guiltily as Sarah goes to the other end of the bar, as far away from them as possible, and lights up a cigarette.

They're well into their pints before a youngish man with the face of a Greek statue (and the dead eyes to match) emerges from the hallway leading to the toilets. His face breaks into a smile when he sees Anna, but Sybil notices that even though he greets her warmly, his eyes remain as flat as ever. Throughout their conversation she's fascinated by the cigarette dangling, seemingly unheeded, from his lower lip. It seems like it should fall, but he always deftly takes a drag before it does.

Anna introduces him and Sybil, praising the Rough Riders effusively. "They have great energy," she gushes. "And they brought in a really good crowd in this crap little pub in the shopping district."

Thomas eyes Sybil appraisingly. "How long've you been playing, then?" He asks her. "D'you have a demo tape?"

Sybil hands him a cassette. "It's terrible quality," she apologizes. "We just recorded some songs during practice." It's all they've got, for now.

"I'll listen to it," Thomas tells her. "But I can't guarantee owt. We're well nigh booked up for the rest of the summer."

"My friend's band is playing here next week," Sybil mentions. "Sack Thatcher? They're going on tour - it's their farewell show."

A flicker of interest rises into Thomas's eyes: but only a flicker. "They're a bit of all right," he says approvingly. "Good name." He inhales cigarette smoke, narrowing his eyes, and discards his fag-end onto the floor. He immediately shakes another out of a packet and lights it. "Maybe I can put you opening for someone next month. Give us a bell in a couple of weeks, hey?"

They collapse in giggles as soon as they're safely inside Sybil's car. "I think Thomas liked you," Anna tells her. "Sarah... well, she doesn't like anyone, that I've ever seen."

"My God, that _hair_," Sybil gasps. "I wonder how long she spends on it every day!" She puts the car in gear. "So are she and Thomas together, or what?"

"Heavens, no." Anna is amused. "He's gay as a handbag." She chuckles again. "I'll bet he fancies someone from your friend's band! He didn't seem too keen on you before you mentioned them."

Sybil laughs. "Well, he's barking up the wrong tree there. They're all about as heterosexual as you can get. Their guitarist plans to shag a different girl every night of the tour, if he can." Hinksy's intention to sample the realm's college-aged females made a humorous part of Sybil and Tom's pillow conversation a few days ago.

"Those blokes are always the most flamboyant once they come out," Anna dismisses. "Hey, want to have some take-away at my place? John's working late tonight. We can get stoned and listen to Suede."

-ooo-

There are two more days until Sack Thatcher departs, and in a fit of domesticity Sybil has offered to cook dinner for Tom at her flat, since he'll be surviving on crisps and beer for the next month. It's not going well.

"I specifically chose this because it's _easy_," Sybil bemoans as she removes the pan of charred lumps that was once a roast, complete with potatoes and carrots, from the oven. Tom watches her from the breakfast bar with raised eyebrows and an amused smirk. He straightens his face when she looks over.

"How high did you set it?" He inquires as casually as possible.

She glances at the oven dial. "Er... eight." She twists it off. "Well, there's my problem, I suppose." She tosses the pan into the sink.

"You have _used _your oven before, right?"

"Of course!" A pause. "At least, I think so." Another pause. "Actually, I can't remember the last time." She sighs. "I'm awfully sorry."

"Think nothing of it," Tom assures her, sliding off his barstool. "I was rather in the mood for curry anyway."

Sybil giggles. "You were just humoring me, weren't you?" She accuses. "You were going to nibble at the roast and make appreciative noises and then sneak out for real food."

"I'm sure it would've been delicious, if only we could cut into it." He grins at her and gives her shoulder a squeeze. "Hold on a minute, I've got something for you."

He can tell by her contrite expression that she hasn't thought to get him a farewell present. She looks a little apprehensive, too. _Jesus, what does she think, that I've bought her a ring?_ He digs into his backpack and brings out a hand-labeled cassette.

"_Music to Wage Revolution By_," she reads off the spine, and smiles while perusing the track listing. "A mix tape. How romantic." She kisses his cheek. "Thank you."

"Well," he says, as they head out the door, "I can't have you forgetting about me while I'm gone."

-ooo-

The contrast between an empty, silent O'Brien's and an O'Brien's full of noise and merriment is literally night and day. Sybil can't believe the difference. The pub is still murky, but muted yellow bulbs and strings of colored lights replace the wan daylight of her earlier visit. Music swells from the PA speakers and dozens of chattering voices overlap to form a cheerful mosaic of sound. _This place has a soul after all,_ Sybil thinks.

She's come with Gwen. As they walk in, Sybil does a quick sweep of the place, but doesn't see Tom. He mustn't be here yet, or maybe they're getting ready to load in before the opening band plays.

"Hiya, Sybil!" Anna finds them at the bar and gives Sybil a quick hug, which she returns. Anna is easy to like.

"I wasn't sure you were coming," Sybil says, fluttering her hands, "what with all the drama." Anna's filled her in some concerning the apparently deep, fresh and painful enmity between her fiance and the proprietors of O'Brien's.

"I wouldn't miss it. It's going to be a fun show!" Anna enthuses. She cranes around Sybil to offer her hand to Gwen. "You must be Gwen! You're a smashing bassist!"

Gwen beams at her. "Thanks!"

They buy drinks and stake out a rickety table that's close enough to the stage for a good view of the action, but far enough away to be clear of the odd thrown pint - Sack Thatcher's gigs draw some rambunctious characters. The three are soon chatting gaily away over the background music.

A second before Tom puts a hand on her shoulder, Sybil's alerted to his presence behind her by Gwen and Anna's upward glances. He leans down for a quick kiss, and though she covers it, the display of affection makes her a bit self-conscious. She and Tom have both been so busy that there hasn't been much time for going to pubs or shows, so this is the first time her friends have seen them interact.

Regardless, they make him welcome: Anna offers him a seat, which he takes. "You'll have to tell us which venues are the best," Gwen says to him, "so's we can start working on booking our tour." She looks over at Sybil, who gives her a small eye-roll. _Just as soon as we've straightened our frontwoman out,_ Sybil thinks. Ethel's got a date tonight, and Sybil's not sorry.

"I'll take detailed notes," Tom deadpans.

The opening band begins their set: snotty punk rock, local uni kids, friends of Doug's. They aren't bad. Gwen's bopping around in her seat and soon gets up to join the small crowd at the front of the stage. Anna and Sybil aren't as enthused. "This really isn't my cup of tea!" Anna shouts into Sybil's ear. Sybil concurs, with a tip of her head.

Several songs in, Tom excuses himself to make sure Sack Thatcher are corralled and ready, and Anna becomes even more restless. "Come with me?" She finally requests, and Sybil follows her out through the rear hallway to the carpark, where they sit in Sybil's car and listen to _Trompe le Monde_. "I can't get into that white male punk rock anymore!" Anna exclaims.

Sybil has nothing to say to that; it seems a bit disloyal to agree, since Anna's just described Tom's band perfectly. A second later she seems to realize. "I didn't mean your mannie's band," she clarifies. "They're a lot more... seasoned."

Sybil does some clarification of her own. "He's not really my man."

Anna chuckles. "Oh? He seems to think he is."

Sybil feels irritation rising in her. "Well, he's not," she retorts. "We're just seeing each other. He's about to go out of town for a month, for God's sake."

Anna holds up her hands. "No need to get shirty. Whatever you say." She changes the subject. "I'm going to roll tonight. You want in?" She reaches down and rummages in her sock top, bringing out a small plastic bag containing a few halved pills.

Sybil looks at her in surprise: Anna seems altogether too levelheaded to be into drugs,and Sybil briefly reflects on the many differences between Anna and Ethel. "I haven't before," she says doubtfully.

"No time like the present. No pressure, though." Anna shrugs. "I'm only doing it because John'll be there when I get home. It makes sex amazing."

That piques Sybil's interest, all right. "Could I just have a half tablet?" she asks.

"Sure." Anna fishes one out and gives it to her, then puts two halves into her own mouth and chews them up, grimacing. Sybil does the same. Bitterness floods her mouth.

"Ugh, that's awful," she complains. "So how long is this supposed to take?"

"You'll start feeling it in a half hour or so. It'll peak in a couple of hours. So get him home quick." Anna dimples. "Have fun."

Sybil's wondering if she's done something stupid. _Well, there's no turning back now, is there?_ She thinks, and removes her keys from the ignition. "We should go inside."

-ooo-

Gwen's relatively sober, so she drives them back into town, but Tom has to convince Sybil that they should take a taxi to his flat from Gwen's. In the cab she's frisky enough that he's a little embarrassed for the driver, who studiously feigns disinterest. Sybil doesn't seem particularly drunk, but acts as though she's intoxicated. He wonders if she got hold of something stronger tonight. She won't stop touching him. He's self-conscious while they have an audience, but it excites him too. Unlike her, he _is_ rather in the bag, but not so far gone as to be numb.

By the time they make it to the stairs inside his building, stopping on the landing for a bit of a snog, Tom is reasonably sure that Sybil is on something. When she pulls her shirt over her head outside his front door, he becomes very sure.

"Sybil!" He tugs it back down, laughing. "Love, let's go inside first!" He fumbles to turn his key in the lock, and they nearly fall into the flat. She grabs his shoulders and kisses him hungrily; he blindly kicks the door shut and steers her down the hall. He's not thinking much of Quincy at all, it has to be said. He barely manages to push "play" on the CD player in his room: it's Minor Threat. Not exactly lovemaking music, but it'll keep Tom from needing to have a difficult conversation with his flatmate tomorrow.

She starts talking once the door to his room is shut. Between vigorous bouts of necking, she utters things she's never said to him before. She tells him that sex with him is the best she's ever had. She tells him she loves spending time with him.

"I love _you_, fullstop," she babbles dreamily. Before he can respond, or even start to freak out, she's continuing on in a decidedly salacious vein. Her descriptions of the things she wants to do to him, and for him to do to her, are almost painfully arousing. He feels like he's having an out-of-body experience, or would be if he weren't currently being made electrically aware of his physical being. "God, I want you so much," she murmurs, her breath warm on his cheek. "All the time." Her hands are busy at his belt buckle, pulling down his zipper, inside his pants and caressing him. "Do you want me?" She vamps, before tonguing a sensitive spot on his neck.

There's a moment when he considers stopping her: _You've had a bit too much of...something, love, maybe we should just go to sleep. _But though Sybil's not _herself_, exactly, neither is she incoherent. She seems in reasonably good possession of her faculties. _And we'd be having sex tonight sober or not, wouldn't we?_

"Yes," he tells her. "Jesus, yes, I fucking want you."

She pushes him down onto the bed and straddles him, brushing his cheekbone with her fingertips. Her pupils are so dilated that they almost swallow up the blue of her irises, making her eyes look blank and bottomless. The effect is disconcerting: like a cartoon drawing of a person who's hypnotized. Almost before he knows what's happening, she's moved down his body, tugged his jeans off his hips and enclosed him in her warm, wet mouth, stroking him with her lips, her tongue. He moans helplessly and leans his head back. His hands tangle in her hair, his voice whispers her name. All he can feel is this sensation.

She's brought him nearly to a point where he can't bear to stop her when he gently touches her face to guide her up. He wants to be closer to her than is possible this way. They fumble their remaining clothes off and she gets on top again, rubbing herself against him, and he feels as though his entire body is one extremely sensitive nerve, as if he might burst open.

"I need you," he whispers to her, "I need to be inside you."

"Oh... _yes_," she breathes. She lifts up, then guides him into the inexpressibly silken wetness between her legs.

He gasps in surprise. "Wait - " he begins, but she stops him, looking into his eyes.

"I want this," she tells him. "I want you like this. Please?" He can only nod.

With nothing between them, lovemaking isn't materially different from before. The mechanics are the same. But it feels more intense, in Tom's mind as well as his body. They've crossed a line. At the moment, though, he's not inclined to dwell much on the abstract implications of this.

Nor is Sybil, apparently. She's moving much too fast for Tom to be able to hold himself together for long, so he changes position to sit up with her in his lap. He fills his hand with her breast, rubbing his thumb lightly over her nipple. She groans and presses her forehead to his. "God, Tom, this is..." she trails off. Her rhythm speeds up again, and as she comes he's surprised by how _much _more intensely he can feel everything. Maybe it is all in his head, but it's amazing.

He doesn't mean to let go inside her. A voice in the back of his mind nags about pregnancy, and he fully intends to diminish that possibility as much as he can, given the circumstances. But when it comes to it there's no question of separating himself from her. For one thing, she's the one on top and in control; for another, he can't stand the thought of it. He clasps her to him, stifling his moans in her shoulder.

He relaxes back onto the pillow and she stays with him, her head resting on his shoulder. He strokes her hair, his mind drifting pleasantly. He's wondering if she's gone to sleep when she lifts her head and flutters a kiss onto his clavicle. "Another incredible fuck," she says lightly. "Thank you, Mr. Branson."

He grins. "And you, Ms. Crawley. You've outdone yourself."

She smiles back, then becomes more serious. "You don't have to worry, you know. I got tested for everything at my last yearly."

"I'm clean as well," he tells her. "What about the other thing, though?"

"I've been on the pill since I was fifteen," she says. "Irregular periods. Convenient, that, eh?" She gives him a lopsided smile, sighs contentedly and drops her head again.

Eventually, she gets up. "You should get some sleep," she says softly, kissing him on the forehead. "I'm going to have a shower."

-o-

She's still not in when he wakes up in the dark, ragingly thirsty. He goes out for a glass of water and finds her in the lounge, listening to music in headphones. "Hiya," she says. "I'm just enjoying your flatmate's records."

Tom smiles. "Those aren't even his good ones," he tells her. "He keeps those in his room under lock and key." Quincy's a DJ. He's been collecting records since he could read the titles: mainly funk, soul and hip-hop. "How're you feeling?" He quirks an eyebrow. _And why didn't you share with me?_

Sybil has the grace to look a little shamefaced. "Good," she answers decisively. "This stuff's smashing, but it's keeping me up all night." She flaps a hand at him. "Go back to bed. I'll be in soon."

She gives him a simple, happy, affectionate smile. His heart lifts. _What a girl I've got,_ he thinks.

-o-

When he wakes again, the sun is well up and Sybil's curled up next to him, deeply asleep.

He goes to the toilet, brushes his teeth, runs his head under the tap. When he comes back Sybil is sprawled across the bed on her stomach, one knee drawn up toward her side. He sits on the bed and watches her sleep a moment. His fingers lightly trace her spine down to where the sheet outlines her buttock.

His mind turns to some of last night's more noteworthy moments, and he feels a definite stirring. Some of the things she said... he's thinking of one thing in particular. _Some morning I want you to wake me up..._

_Why not this morning?_

He leans over and moves her hair aside so he can kiss the back of her neck. He moves his lips over her shoulder and she stirs, arching into his touch like a cat. He rubs her arms and slides his hands around her torso to caress her breasts. He covers her body with his own, kissing her cheek, her closed eyelid.

She stretches and moans a bit, a sleepy smile curving her lips, but keeps her eyes shut. Tom takes off his boxers and burrows under the sheet from the end of the bed, massaging her feet, her calves, her arse. He moves aside her underwear and nudges her to lift her hips slightly so he can taste her from behind. She whimpers, begins to undulate, as his tongue slips in and out of her and teases her clitoris. He rises up to thrust into her just as she's starting to orgasm and she cries out his name, convulsing in pleasure. He doesn't even bother trying to hold back, coming for what feels like minutes. _This,_ some part of him exults, _this is heaven._

He collapses onto her back, relishing the feel of her smooth skin against his chest. After a moment Sybil deadpans, "Well. That was quite an alarm bell." He starts laughing and can't stop; she catches it too and they giggle together for a few minutes.

He thinks of something else she said last night. _I love you, fullstop._ He wonders whether she meant it in any way that matters. He doesn't bring it up, though, and neither does she.

-ooo-

Appendix A

Track List: _Music to Wage Revolution By_

(Tom's mixtape for Sybil)

The Jesus and Mary Chain: "Head On"

Elvis Costello: "Less Than Zero"

Nation of Ulysses: "You're My Miss Washington, D.C."

Gang of Four: "Ether"

Nirvana: "Love Buzz"

Stiff Little Fingers: "Alternative Ulster"

Sham 69: "I Don't Wanna"

Patti Smith: "Gloria"

Descendents: "Good Good Things"

U2: "Stranger in a Strange Land"

Fugazi: "Merchandise"

My Bloody Valentine: "Feed Me with Your Kiss"

Mission of Burma: "Forget"

The Replacements: "Don't Turn Me Down"

The Clash: "The Guns of Brixton"

The Soft Boys: "I Got the Hots"


	6. Chapter 6

_AN: Thanks so much for the lovely reviews and support! I'm so glad you're enjoying it, and it's especially nice to read that some of you like Tom's mixtape (or "playlist," for those of you BORN in the '90s. ha). I'm definitely planning on coming up with more for this story._

* * *

June 1993

For once, the Rough Riders are having a good rehearsal. Sybil hates to spoil it.

During their first break, however, Gwen puts their loosely pre-arranged plan into action by remarking, "I wish practice could always be like this."

"Yeah, we're on fire tonight," Ethel enthuses. _Does she truly not realize it's _her_?_ Sybil wonders.

Gwen tosses a lock of ginger hair out of her eyes and delivers the line for which she's been screwing up her courage. "Seems we've been falling off lately, though. You've been arsed a lot. It's affecting your playing."

Ethel sighs and does what Sybil has come to think of as "her Ethel thing": deflecting uncomfortable statements by dramatically waving her hands around and speaking in a sing-song voice. "I know. I know, and I'm sorry. I've been dealing with a lot of shit."

"Why didn't you say?" Sybil breaks in as gently as she can. "We're here, you know. You can talk to us."

"Ethel, we're your friends. We both love you," Gwen says soothingly. "We don't like to see you hurting yourself." Her voice hardens. "But if you want to be in a band with me and Sybil, you'll have to pull your weight. And you haven't been."

Ethel gets to her feet. "What is this?" she asks plaintively. "You've been talking about me? Is this an intervention or something?"

Sybil snorts. "Nothing that cheesy."

"No," Ethel retorts. "No. That's what this is. The both of you, you've been...plotting." her voice breaks.

"Ethel!" Gwen stands up, reaches out to her.

"Don't fucking touch me!" She waves Gwen's hands away and stalks out the door of the practice room, a garagelike space in a block of storage units. Gwen and Sybil hear her steps crunching away on the gravel outside.

Sybil heaves a sigh. "That went well."

-ooo-

There are plenty of long stretches of road in England. When it's Tom's turn to drive, or when he should be napping in the back seat of the van, he lets his eyes roam over the sheep-fields and thinks about Sybil.

Over several days, his thoughts coalesce around a simple truth: he's in love with her. Deeply. Irretrievably. His heart is hers. He hopes that she is willing to take care of it, and that some part of hers might belong to him.

What he most wants is to get back.

-ooo-

Meanwhile, Sybil is busy. At first she's horny and busy, and then she's just busy. For her sex is like sugar: after a period of abstinence, she doesn't crave it as much. Not to say that she doesn't think about it, or about Tom. In fact, the more Sybil's carnal desires subside, the more she contemplates their relationship, if that's truly what it is. She's been so careful to keep it free of labels and expectations. He's not her boyfriend. Or more to the point: she's not his girlfriend. But increasingly she's wondering whether her attitude reflects the current reality.

She remembers most of the things she said on the night before he left. Her words hung about the next morning, once she and Tom got up to start their day. They were unwelcome guests at breakfast; they butted in at the muted farewells early in the afternoon, creating a reserve that wasn't there before. The E was a mistake, she decides. It made things seem so simple: if you felt like saying something, why not say it? What was there to be afraid of? But it wore off, and life is still complicated: even more so, she fears, now that she's made declarations she can't take back. She's learning that words are seldom without consequence.

However, she's got too much to do to spend much time ruminating. Her volunteer schedule is as full as ever; at her mother's insistence, she's researching career paths and graduate schools; and she's decided that the Rough Riders will record a proper demo, just as soon as she and Gwen can convince Ethel to a) forgive them and b) stop getting pissed every night. She's swamped.

-ooo-

The distance erodes Tom's confidence. During his stints as passenger he writes her ardent letters, all of which end up in the bin. What he actually sends are postcards. He buys the most touristy ones he can find, scrawling them with brief, wry missives.

A view of the Dales, with a picturesque village in the middleground:_ Went fellwalking after drinking 16 lagers last night. Fun!_

A photograph of Newcastle Cathedral: _Gorgeous place. We would've gone inside, but we were afraid we'd burst into flames._

When a gig goes well, he mentions that. _The kids loved us last night. I think Hinksy may have finally realised his dream of having a threesome after the show._

When it goes poorly, he complains good-naturedly. _Played to a grand total of two and a half people: the bartender, the sound man, and a drunk passed out with his head on the bar._

He signs off on each one: _Miss you. Tom_.

-ooo-

She wasn't expecting to feel so insecure in him. Whenever they were together he was fully present, very much _with _her. But if she starting to have trouble calling to mind the timbre of his voice, the way his jaw sets when he reads the paper, it stands to reason that he's having similar lapses of memory. And it seems to her that he's communicating very little about what he's actually up to, which naturally leads her to wonder what he's leaving out of his cheeky little postcards.

He rings her up a few nights after leaving, but their conversation is short and unsatisfying. He's in a pay phone in a loud pub. Between the music and some drunk cow screeching in the background, they can scarcely hear each other. After the fourth round of "What?!" and "Say that again?" He tells her (she thinks) that he'll try again tomorrow, hopefully from somewhere quieter, and rings off. She doesn't get another call from him that fortnight.

She listens to his tape over and over, rereads the label written out in forward-leaning black-inked block letters, attempting to parse song titles and what lyrics she can make out. Exactly what depth of feeling do the words "feed me with your kiss" imply? Is "you are not what you own" a subtle dig at her family, or merely an expression of Tom's life philosophy? Maybe he just thought she'd like the beat. She starts to feel like she's going a little barmy.

She has a list of the more important stops on the tour, and develops the rather sentimental notion of posting him a letter at one of them. She can't imagine what she'd write to him, though. A postcard from Leeds: _Things are the same as ever here, Miss you, Sybil_? She's too unsure to put her real feelings into words, but it never occurs to her that Tom could be experiencing the same doubts. There's really only one thing she can send him. Not a postcard, but an oblique message in song.

-ooo-

June 1993: Second week of tour

They arrive in Bristol late and in foul moods. It's pissing down rain and they missed a turn earlier, driving for an hour in the wrong direction. Now they've barely got time to load in and get set up.

Tom goes to the bar just before they're to start playing and orders a Carlsberg and a shot of Bushmills. He's watching his pennies, but it's been a shit day and he's soaked to the skin from loading equipment in the rain. He needs a bit of warmth in his belly.

"You want to start a tab, mate?" The bartender asks, in an accent that sounds like he's swallowing his tongue.

He's forgotten his wallet on the stage. "Sure. Name's Tom."

This seems to trigger something in the bloke's memory. "Tom. It's not Tom Branson, is it?" Tom assents with a nod. "And your band's called Sack Thatcher?"

"Right," Tom says wearily. _Just give me my sodding drink already._

"Got something in the post for you a few days ago." The bartender gives him a quizzical look, turns and fiddles around in a pile of papers and debris below the rows of bottles. He comes back with a small padded parcel.

It's addressed to _Tom Branson (Sack Thatcher), care of the Red Gryphon_ in Sybil's neat round printing. A little jolt of adrenaline shoots through Tom. "Cheers, mate!" he exclaims.

The bartender looks taken aback at Tom's sudden sunniness. "Don't mention it," he mutters, and turns to attend to his next customer.

Just then Hinksy bellows from the stage. "Tommy! Down the hatch and get the fuck up here!"

Tom bolts his whiskey and carries his lager - and his parcel - to the stage, stowing the package safely in his backpack.

They play a decent enough set - good crowd. As soon as they've finished loading out he climbs into the van's front seat and slits the parcel open with his Swiss army knife.

It's a cassette, wrapped for protection in a green silk scarf.

The label is closely written in the same hand as the address on the package. Tom grins and slots the tape into the van's player. He holds the scarf to his face and inhales, fancying that he can smell her scent.

-To Be Continued-

Appendix B

Track List: Soundtrack for (the first 100 miles of) a 1,000 mile drive  
(Sybil's mixtape for Tom)

Beat Happening: "Me Untamed"  
Sonic Youth: "Kool Thing"  
Unwound: "Valentine Card"  
Slowdive: "40 Days"  
X: "You"  
Siouxsie and the Banshees: "Love in a Void  
My Bloody Valentine: "Only Shallow"  
The Pixies: "Bone Machine"  
Blondie: "Call Me"  
The Breeders: "Glorious"  
PJ Harvey: "50 Ft. Queenie"  
The Vaselines: "Dying for It"  
Huggy Bear: "Fuck Yr. Heart"  
The Modern Lovers: "I Wanna Sleep in Your Arms"


	7. Chapter 7

_AN: Thanks as always for the reviews, favorites and follows!_

* * *

July 1993

The first week in July, a fresh crop of fifth-years rotates in on clinical attachments at the hospital. Sybil's raising the window shades in a patient room when some of the new students come in on their morning rounds. She notices one of them immediately: he stands in the back of the gaggle, a head taller than the others, as they surround one of the four beds. "_Tall, dark and handsome" was written for this bloke, _she thinks, but just in passing. She's accustomed to seeing attractive medical students come through. As a cohort, they tend to have white teeth, smooth skin and bouncy hair.

She finishes up and heads toward the door on her way to the next room. As she walks past, the student catches her eye and flashes her a smile: _perfect teeth, check_. She smiles back. It's only the civil thing to do.

Tom rings that evening while she's eating a bowl of cereal and sifting through a pile of nursing and graduate school literature. He's found a quieter place this time, Sybil's glad to hear, and she settles into an armchair for an actual conversation. "How are things?" She asks. He sent her yet another postcard (a photo of a Buckingham Palace guard) thanking her for the mix tape, so she knows he's gotten that. "Remind me where you are now?"

"Cambridge. And things are good, the shows have been brilliant." He sounds like he can't quite believe it. "And you?"

"Monstrously busy. As ever." She tells him about her and Gwen's talk with Ethel, and how Ethel rang Sybil a day later, sobbing and promising to do better. She's been remarkably temperate since. The Rough Riders have booked a couple of local gigs, including one at O'Brien's, and they're making plans to record a demo: Sybil declares herself "cautiously optimistic."

Tom laughs. "You always think the best of people, don't you? I love that about you."

"Well, I try to do." _And what else do you love about me?_

"Sybil..." Tom hesitates. "We may stay out a few days longer."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. We've been asked to go back and play a showcase in London in a couple of weeks, and it's a big chance for us, and we can't afford to drive all the way to Yorkshire and then come back down south..."

"Of course," she says brightly. "It sounds great. You must be pleased."

"Sure we are." Tom sighs. "This'd better pan out. I'll have a hard job to make rent next month as it is."

Sybil makes sympathetic noises. She could help with that, of course, but she has a feeling Tom wouldn't take an offer of financial assistance very well.

"And of course it means almost another week added on to the time 'til you get to see me again," he teases.

"Well, obviously that's the worst part."

"Obviously."

-ooo-

Of course, there was no question of them turning down the gig. Masses of industry types will be there; if Sack Thatcher does well, they'll probably get signed by one of the indies... which is what they want, right?

_It's only a few more days._ But Tom's already feeling worn down, and they've still got two weeks - almost three weeks, now - left. Three weeks of late nights, of sleeping on strangers' sofas, of drinking too much piss-poor beer to deal with the boredom of seeing bands he doesn't really want to see, talking to people he doesn't really want to talk to. Three more weeks away from Sybil. It might as well be forever.

-ooo-

The student, to whom Sybil had begun referring in her head as TDH (for Tall, Dark and Handsome), has a name. It's Alec Li. She knows this because he told it to her.

A couple of days after Sybil first notices him, they run into each other in the queue to buy coffees. Once they've exchanged nods of mutual recognition it's only courteous for her to introduce herself. And after that, it would seem standoffish in her to just run off and let him drink his alone. So they find a free bench in the courtyard off the canteen, and she discovers that as well as being handsome, he's quite nice.

She finds herself talking to him about the band, which impresses him, although he says he likes hip-hop and techno better than rock or punk. She mentions that she's thinking about going into public health nursing; he tells her he's always wanted to be a doctor, coming from a family of them. His father is an internist whose parents emigrated with him from China after the second world war, and his mother is Welsh, a gynecologist.

"Are you trilingual then?" Sybil asks, rather intrigued. It occurs to her that she's never thought to ask Tom if he speaks Irish.

"Not really. My mum left Wales when she was young and she's forgotten most of her Welsh. I speak a bit of Mandarin with my nai nai, but I understand more than I can speak."

"That's cool, though. I wish I spoke another language. I had a bit of French in secondary school but I've lost it all."

Alec looks at his wristwatch. "Well, I'd best get back to it," he says reluctantly. "It was really nice talking with you, Sybil." His smile is wide and warm and reaches his dark eyes, so she knows he means it.

-ooo-

Northampton. Coventry. Birmingham. Each place different, each the same. Most of the shows on the fag-end of Sack Thatcher's tour are well attended, with raucous and appreciative audiences. Tom's still able to disappear into playing each night, can still enjoy being onstage and watching his bandmates' obvious excitement about their success. He's fairly sure they haven't picked up on his decreased enthusiasm.

That is, until Will brings it up on the drive between Nottingham and Sheffield. Their latest host had to be at work early that morning, so they're awake on the wrong side of noon. Tom has been roped into driving, which gives him choice of music, and Sybil's tape is in the deck. "This shite again," Hinksy complains from the backseat, before falling immediately and noisily asleep. Doug just rolls his eyes and then closes them, his head pillowed on a wadded-up sweatshirt. Will stares out the windscreen as they get on the road.

They drive in silence a while, Tom struggling to keep his eyes open. He almost prefers it when Hinksy sits in the passenger seat. The guitarist's inability to stop talking while conscious is a boon on long, boring drives. Then, out of nowhere, Will throws a glance backward and says to Tom sotto voce, "You're not going to quit the band, are you?"

Tom snaps fully awake. _Jesus, he's reading my mind_. That very possibility was just drifting through it. He isn't considering quitting immediately, of course. But the thought of another tour, especially close on the heels of this one, is not attractive. He realizes that Will's probably taking his hesitation as an admission. "Of course not."

"Good."

Will's a person of few words, but Tom knows him better than to think that response means he's satisfied. He waits.

"Only you don't seem to be having as much of a laugh on tour as the rest of us." Now it's Will's turn to wait.

"Well, I'm not getting any younger," Tom finally replies, having mentally exhausted other options. "I suppose I'll have to get a real job at some point."

"What if we could make it, though?" Tom hears the naive optimism in Will's voice and wishes he could be as excited. "We're getting a good following. We might have a record deal soon."

Tom sighs. "Will. Even if we do, there will probably never be enough money in playing bloody punk rock to let us quit our day jobs. There just won't." He feels like a wet blanket saying it, but it's true.

"And you aren't keen enough on the band to be a poverty-stricken nomad for it," Will states flatly.

"Who would be?"

"The rest of us!" Will looks back again as Doug shifts in his seat, and lowers his voice. "Look, Tom, it's obvious that you just want to settle down with your nice little girlfriend and have a nice little life. It's all right, I'm happy for you. Just be honest about it." Tom shakes his head and opens his mouth, but Will talks over him. "Look, I'm not saying she's Yoko bloody Ono -"

"What the fuck, Will," Tom splutters angrily.

" - She seems great." Will shows his palms appeasingly. Tom shuts his mouth, but he's still glowering. "Just... don't give up everything for her, right? Don't give up the things that make you happy. No girl's worth that."

Tom has nothing to say to that, and his jaw stays clenched.

"I'm saying this to you as your friend."

Silence, except for the music.

Finally, Will blows out a noisy breath and turns back to the window. They don't speak the rest of the way to Sheffield.

They originally planned on making the push back to Leeds after this show. It frustrates Tom to be so close to home, knowing they'll just have to backtrack, but there's nothing to be done.

As if in response to the decreasing distance between them, Sybil has been making more and more frequent, and quite surreal, appearances in his dreams. That night she's on a horse, though he has no idea whether she's ever ridden. At some point he notices that she's naked, her long hair tumbling forward to blend with the animal's mane. She looks down at Tom with such lusty promise in her eyes that he snaps awake, panting and aroused. He has to laugh at himself. _I can't even just dream about having sex like a normal person... I have to bring a bloody horse into it._

-ooo-

When they happen to cross paths in the canteen for the third time in as many days, it dawns on Sybil that the correspondence of their coffee-drinking schedules is probably not coincidental.

She's no stranger to attention from the opposite sex. Her first kiss was stolen from her in kindergarten, and she's been popular with boys since then, so she knows that the easiest thing she can do is wait and see. She doesn't have to wait long. They're having coffee - again - when Alec makes a quip about how this is becoming quite a habit with them.

Sybil raises an eyebrow. "I've noticed."

He laughs and drops his gaze. "Do you know," he says, "I'd like to take you out. You're very different. In a good way," he hastens to add.

Somehow, she's avoided thinking this far. But she respects directness, and Alec is apparently not afraid to go after what he wants in a straightforward way. It's a welcome change from the uncertainty that's defined her romantic yearnings lately.

So she accepts. After all, it's not as if she has a boyfriend. Who knows what Tom's been doing, out on tour with masses of cute girls watching him play every night? The birds do like a good-looking stranger, especially one wielding a guitar.

And she likes Alec. He's kind, and he's funny, though his humor is subtler than Tom's. She marvels a bit at how two such different men can both be attractive to her. _I shouldn't be comparing them, _she thinks. But why not? She'll have to choose sooner or later.

On Saturday Sybil makes a conscious decision not to dress up. _He'll see the real me, and if he doesn't like it, he can lump it,_ she thinks as she laces up her Docs.

She meets Alec in the city centre near Eastgate. He seems to know exactly where he's going. "You like Chinese, right?" He asks.

"Love it."

He grins at her. "Just wait."

They thread through unfamiliar streets to a brightly lit, rather chintzy-looking storefront that makes Sybil glad she's dressed down. Inside, they perch at a counter that's inset with a gas ring, upon which a waiter sets a pot of boiling broth.

"So it's like fondue," she comments when the waiter places a serving plate arranged with small cuts of raw meat and vegetables before them, along with several ramekins of different sauces.

"Hotpot."

It's good: very good. Sybil stuffs herself. Cooking their own food piece by piece makes for a leisurely dinner, so they have plenty of time to talk, and the conversation flows easily. Finally the serving dish is empty. Sybil reaches for the bill, but Alec is too quick for her.

"Oh, no, you don't," he warns. "I said I would take you out."

"We can at least split it."

He pretends to consider. "How about I let you buy me a drink."

"Oho, so we're going for drinks now!"

"You've got somewhere else to be, then?" He smirks at her. And pays the check.

He takes her to a club, where Sybil regards the queue with skepticism. Most of the women are dressed - and scantily - to the nines. "They're not going to let me in here."

"Bollocks," Alec says. "You look gorgeous." Amazingly, he's right: they get in without a fuss. Sybil wonders if he's bribed the bouncer.

They buy drinks - Sybil, true to her word, pays for both - and manage to find a table in the increasingly crowded space. They drink. They try to talk, but it's getting later and the music is intensifying. It's bass-heavy, thumping, sensual.

More people are starting to dance, and after a couple of drinks Alec coaxes Sybil onto the floor. She's not used to dancing like this: pressed up against someone she barely knows, having to move her hips. It feels so awkward. At a punk rock show, if a bloke likes you he shows it by helping you up when you get pushed down in the pit.

She stands on tiptoe and stretches to yell into Alec's ear - she's not used to that either - "Could we sit down?" He can't hear her, but she makes herself understood with hand gestures and they make their way through the press.

They've just gotten to a place where the crowd thins a bit when he kisses her.

She wasn't expecting it, and her mouth is open. His lips are soft but firm. He tastes like rum.

_Not afraid to go after what he wants._

She finds herself relaxing into it, reaching up to grasp his shoulder, to move her hand across his back. He embraces her, pulling her into him. She feels a drop in her stomach: that thrill that had become so familiar, but which she hasn't felt in weeks now. It's closely followed by a wave of guilt. She pulls away. It's too noisy in here for explanations, but she meets Alec's questioning look with a little shake of her head. "Sorry," he mouths, giving her a sheepish half-smile, and starts to lead the way toward a table that's opening up. Sybil follows him, glancing around to make sure no one runs into her.

And meets the eyes of Tom's flatmate.

_Oh, fucking hell_ is her first thought. _How much did he see?_ is her second. Quincy gives her a nod and a little wave: he's obviously recognized her. She nods back, trying to look as guiltless as possible. _I've got to get out of here._

As soon as Quincy's disappeared into the throng, Sybil draws Alec off to the side. "I'm not feeling well," she yells into his ear, and feels a remorseful twinge at his look of concern. He insists on seeing her nearly home; he wants to walk her to her door, but she convinces him to stay on the bus when she gets off at her stop.

"I'll be fine," she tells him. "Just a bad headache. Nothing a night of sleep won't mend." _If only,_ she thinks.

-ooo-

Back again in London, the show goes even better than they hoped. They play well; but more importantly, the crowd loves them. They sell more T-shirts and seven-inches in one night than they sold in a week on tour in the north - which is a lucky thing, as they'd otherwise be taking up a collection for petrol money to get back home. Thanks to Hinksy's expert schmoozing, their demo tape finds its way into the pockets of half a dozen A&R men, if such a term can be applied to tattooed, aging punks who also put in long hours each week packaging up mail orders. Needless to say, Island Records and its ilk are not represented here.

Along with the rest of Sack Thatcher and a herd of others, Tom fetches up after the show at the flat of someone's long-suffering girlfriend, somewhere in the East End. There's no question of sleeping, unless he cares to bunk in the van (which he thinks about doing, considering the shadiness of the neighborhood).

The rest of the band members have decamped to one of the bedrooms to smoke hash, or what someone says is hash. Tom stays in the front room. Alcohol's always been his drug of choice, and anyway someone has to keep a relatively clear head. He's doing rather a shit job of that, he has to admit. Liquor as well as lager flowed freely for the bands at the venue, and he imbibed his share of whiskey there. And now it's - what, 3:30? and he's not been without a can in his hand since he arrived at the flat.

Luckily, the kids at the party are congenial. In the past, Tom's accent has made him a target for race-baiting, and he's occasionally been arsed enough to rise to it. Tonight, though, the most angst he's had to deal with is the relatively tame fallout of disagreeing with someone's dearly held belief that all new wave is for poofters.

_The scenery's not bad, either,_ he observes, eyeing a trio of women sitting across the room from him and reflecting that he must be very drunk indeed. One of them catches his eye and smiles, and he looks away quickly. A few minutes later he makes his way into the kitchen and opens the refrigerator - which is inexplicably still stocked with beer - to grab another.

"Could you reach me one of those?" Someone says behind him, and when he turns to hand over another can it's the same woman. Girl, really: she can't be older than nineteen or twenty, and she's tiny, which makes her look younger. She grins up at him from under blunt-cut fringe, dyed black. "You're from that band, aren't you?"

"Which band is that?" Tom replies. He doesn't mean it to sound flirtatious: it just comes out that way.

"You played earlier. I didn't get your name, sorry." She cocks her head and squints coquettishly. "I really liked you, though. I'm Wendy."

He shakes her hand. She's got a remarkably strong grip for someone so small. "Tom." He leans back against the counter and pulls the ringtab on his beer can, takes a long swallow. Wendy stands in front of him, a shade nearer than is quite polite, he thinks.

"So," she's asking him, "D'you have a girlfriend, wherever it is you're from?" Her question seems like rather a formality, since she appears to have put her arms round his neck and started plumbing his mouth with her tongue.

Tom's so behind the curve that it takes him a moment to disengage. "You make a habit of kissing strange men in people's kitchens?" He asks, once he's managed to disentangle his tongue from hers. He keeps his tone light, not wanting to be unkind.

She smiles, unfazed. "Just the fit ones." She makes another attempt at locking lips with him, which he's now canny enough to rebuff. Finally she steps away. "What's up with you then?" She demands, affronted. "_Have_ you got a girlfriend?"

"Something like that." Tom wonders if he should suggest she go find Hinksy; they seem right up each other's alleys.

Wendy shrugs. "Well," she says to him, "she's a lucky bird."

-o-

Tom's got a splitting headache, but it can't spoil his good mood. He'll be home tonight; he'll see Sybil. He can hardly wait.

-To Be Continued-


	8. Chapter 8

_AN: Soooo... drama! I'm afraid there's more of that in store for this chapter (and beyond)... but stay with me! I'm so glad you're enjoying it._

* * *

July 1993

Sybil stands nervously outside Tom's flat, having just knocked on the door for the first time in more than a month. He opens it, his hair still damp from the shower, and within seconds she's made aware of how wrong she's been. Whatever his reasons for the lack of substantive communication during his absence, they didn't include a waning of his interest in her.

He pulls her inside and holds her for a long time. "Mmm." He breathes deeply, seemingly inhaling her scent. "I've missed you." She hugs him back hard, rubbing his back, and wishes they could just stay like this: if not forever, then for a few years at least.

_You have to tell him, you cowardly slag,_ her conscience yammers. _You have to tell himyouhavetotellhimyouhaveto tellhim. _Then he pulls back to look into her face and his eyes shine out at her, bright and happy. _Later,_ she promises herself. _Soon._

She tries on a smile. "Where's your flatmate?" _And has he said anything to you?_ Not yet, it would seem.

"Down south. His brother's getting married." Tom pulls her close again and kisses her deeply. "We've got the place to ourselves," he says, raising an eyebrow suggestively. He moves in for another kiss but she steps back, out of his arms.

"I can't stay," she tells him. "I've got to be on the ward early tomorrow morning."

"That never stopped you before." He looks perplexed and a little hurt.

_Oh God, he knows something's up. No, he doesn't - how could he? Shit!_ "I know. I'm sorry. I'm really, really tired. Completely knackered." She gives him another crooked smile. "I just wanted to come by and see you. I missed you as well."

"We could just listen to music or something. Watch a movie."

"I can't. I've got a pile of stuff to do at home." She massages her forehead. "Miles to go before I sleep." She flutters back up to him and kisses him quickly on the mouth. "We'll pick this up later, then?" She turns to leave before she can lose her resolve.

"I'll ring you tomorrow," he calls down the stairs after her.

-ooo-

Tom believes that his and Quincy's opposite schedules are a large part of their successful relationship as flatmates. Quincy works nights and keeps his social life as quiet as possible or outside of the flat; Tom works days and does the same. They pay their bills, clean up their messes and respect each other's boundaries. They're cordial enough, but neither feels the need to be best mates.

The day Quincy returns from his brother's wedding, though, Tom's let off early from work and they find themselves together in the kitchen, having a rare conversation. Tom asks how Southampton was; Quincy inquires about Sack Thatcher's tour. Actually, since women are one of Quincy's favorite topics of conversation, he inquires about the availability of female companionship on Sack Thatcher's tour. "You get off with a lot of birds, then?"

Tom laughs. "Not me. My guitarist shagged enough for both of us."

Quincy snorts. "Would've thought you'd be on the pull. You and your lady just broken up and all."

_What?_ Tom's head jerks up from his paper. "We're... not."

Quincy suddenly looks profoundly uncomfortable, and Tom feels a cold foreboding that makes him want to get up and walk out of the room before his flatmate can speak. "Only I saw her last weekend, down the club with some bloke, is all." Quincy fidgets. "They looked pretty cozy."

"What d'you mean, 'cozy'?" Tom demands. "Are you sure it was her?" He's not certain he's ever even seen Quincy talk to Sybil. And she doesn't go to clubs. _Or does she?_ It dawns on him how very short a time he's known her.

"Pretty sure, yeah. She wasn't dressed like the other birds, that's why I noticed her. Jeans, flannel shirt tied round her waist, combat boots, like." Sybil's going-out uniform. "I wasn't that far away," Quincy continues. "Got a good look."

"What about the guy? What did he look like?" Tom's heart is pounding.

"Dunno, mate. He looked like... a bloke. I don't notice blokes."

Pieces from the last time he saw her, pieces that didn't seem to fit before, are falling into place. Sybil's awkwardness, her eagerness to get away. And the feeling of wrongness that kept him from saying any of the things he'd meant to. And he'd thought it was just because they hadn't been together in so long. "What were they doing?" _Was she kissing him? Is she...?_

"Like I said, they were cozy." Quincy looks at the floor. "They were doing a bit of necking." He holds up a warning hand as Tom opens his mouth. "Mate, I am truly sorry, but you're going to have to take this up with your girl."

Tom lets out his held-in breath. "Yeah, of course. Sorry."

He pushes back his chair and stomps into his room. Listens to angry music. Thinks about what to do. Comes to no good conclusions.

-ooo-

_He said he would ring._

It's been three days since they last spoke. If not for her guilt, Sybil would put it down to him being busy getting back into normal life, or the two of them simply finding their rhythm again.

_He said he would ring. And he hasn't._

Sybil tries to reassure herself. Tom and Quincy are the proverbial ships in the night: they barely talk even when they're both in residence. It's possible that the subject of what Quincy saw in the club will never even come up between them.

But all the same, she has to tell Tom. It's only right. She's just afraid she's waited too long.

She won't ring him: she doesn't want to have this conversation on the phone. She'll go over. Sybil intends to leave as soon as she knows he'll be home from work, but first the washing up needs doing, then the laundry must be folded. She spends twenty minutes roving about the flat, arranging and rearranging objects on shelves. It's full dark before she finally catches a bus to his street.

As soon as he opens the door, she can see that it's all up. He knows.

-o-

She hovers outside the door, looking like she's making up her mind to step off a cliff.

"Well, come in, if you're coming," he says, motioning her inside and closing the door without touching her. He turns and stalks into the lounge, sits on the sofa. She drifts in after him and perches on the armchair, making his heart sink. More than anything, that confirms Quincy's story: if things were all right, she'd sit next to him.

"So," she begins. Her voice cracks.

"So," he prompts. He wants to let her twist on her own hook, but she's mute for so long that he relents. "Sybil, just tell me."

She clears her throat. "I think you've already been told."

He looks directly at her for the first time since she came in, and she raises her eyes from her lap to meet his. They're wide but calm and, to his reckoning, unapologetic. "Just tell me," he says again, slowly, "if it's the same with you and him as it is with you and me."

"No." The answer is immediate and decisive.

"Then why? I'm gone a month and what, you can't wait?"

She flares up at that. "It's not as if we ever agreed we'd be exclusive! I told you I didn't want a boyfriend."

"That was before - " Tom breaks off. He tries a different tack, playing devil's advocate. "Why are you making such a deal out of this now, then? So you went out with someone. No harm, no foul, right?"

She shakes her head. "I was going to tell you."

Anger finishes eating away the numbness that's been his overriding emotion during this interview, and he stands up to pace the room, needing to move, unable to keep looking at her. "When?" He demands. "When were you going to tell me?"

"Now. I came over so we could talk about it."

"You don't think this is information I should've had before now!" He hears his voice getting louder, struggles to stay calm.

"I'm sorry," she yells, shrugging angrily. "I didn't know we were serious. I didn't realize we were 'boyfriend-girlfriend.'" She punctuates the final words with derisive air-quotes.

His mouth falls open in disbelief. "Right, don't fence me in," he bites out bitterly. "Don't worry, I won't." He feels like his stomach is boiling. He might throw up, or cry, and right now he really doesn't want to do either of those things. Instead he plops back down on the sofa and snorts disgustedly. "I fucked you without a condom, you cunt."

Tom knows even as this comes out of his mouth that it's irrevocable. That ugly word is the last one she'll ever listen to him speak. He doesn't care. What he wants most at this moment is to wound her.

Mission accomplished: Sybil lets out an audible breath, as if she's been hit in the stomach. Tom stares stubbornly into the corner.

"_Fuck you_, Tom Branson," she says in a choked voice, and a moment later the front door slams. Her furious boot-heels clatter down the stairs and out of earshot.

-To Be Continued-

Appendix C

Tom's breakup songs

Big Black: "Pavement Saw"

PJ Harvey: "Snake"

Mr. Bungle: "Love is a Fist"

Jawbox: "Freezerburn"

Joy Division: "Love Will Tear Us Apart"

The Stooges: "I Wanna Be Your Dog"

Gang of Four: "Damaged Goods"

Husker Du: "Don't Want to Know if You Are Lonely"

Hank Williams: "Your Cheatin' Heart"


	9. Chapter 9

_AN: So neither of our lovebirds have behaved very well, have they? Well, the angst isn't over yet but don't worry, Sybil and Tom won't be hanging in limbo forever._

_Thanks very much for the reviews (Moa-Osen: omg Poppy Z. Brite! I'd forgotten all about her), favorites and follows!_

* * *

The "new message" light on the answerphone is already blinking when she gets home from Tom's. Sybil snorts angrily and storms into the bathroom. She ignores the blinking light while she brushes her teeth. Ignores it while she gets undressed for bed. Ignores it while she tries to reread _Pride and Prejudice_. _I never noticed what a wanker Mr Darcy is,_ she thinks, and shuts off the lamp to lie awake in the dark.

_I fucked you without a condom, you cunt. You cunt. You. Cunt._ She can't get it out of her mind. The way he looked.

_How _could _he?_

She can't even cry.

At some point she sleeps, if her thin, fretful doze can be called sleep. When morning comes she feels numb and raw all at once. She's not scheduled at the hospital, thank God. She dresses and goes out, getting a newspaper and a coffee and bun in the next street and taking them to a park bench where she spends the next two hours. She flips through the paper but doesn't absorb much of it; mostly she listens to the birds chatter and watches through her sunglasses as the joggers and Rollerbladers go by.

She considers going back to her flat; thinks about driving to Manchester or London or (_God, I must be mad_) Downton village instead, in the clothes she stands in and without luggage. It would be good to be enfolded in her mother's arms, to be soothed and told that she is loved. But it would be tiresome to explain her sudden presence there. Instead, she bins the newspaper and her empty cup and begins to walk.

She winds through the streets without a destination in mind, focusing on the steady rhythm her feet make on the pavement. After an hour or so she finds a bus stop and rides out to the Rough Riders' practice space. She needs to hit something.

Playing calms her, as it always does. At first she plays as hard as she can, pounding the drums with abandon, hair flying. She's quickly drenched in sweat. After a while she wields the sticks with more finesse. She works on a combination that's been eluding her, slowing down and speeding up until all her limbs work in concert. She begins to forget the way Tom's mouth twisted last night. _Cunt_. She actually flinches, remembering.

When she gets back home, she presses the "Erase" button on the machine.

-ooo-

As soon as she's left, Tom's outrage gives way to remorse. His balled hands fall open and he drops his head into them. Now, with his anger dissipated, he doesn't know what possessed him to say such a thing. _That isn't me,_ he wants to tell her.

He leaves a rambling apology on her answerphone that he knows won't do any good even as he's ringing off. _Maybe she'll give me points for promptness,_ he thinks sarcastically.

He goes into his bedroom and lies down, but does not sleep. His mind won't stop testing out possible solutions to his problem, even though he knows that none of them will work. A bicycle can be repaired with the right combination of parts and skill, but even if relationships were subject to physical and mechanical laws, he's afraid he's broken the frame of this one. Thrown it out the window and run it over.

He becomes more and more frenzied as the hours tick by, finally giving up completely on sleep and pacing first around his room, and then the flat. It's not that he thinks she's going to contact him; he just can't stop anticipating it. The inability to do anything to _fix this_ is driving him crazy.

The next morning at the bike shop, his supervisor, Jay, picks up on his silence and irritability. He gives Tom a wide berth and the task of building some of the cycles that have just arrived: in the back room, away from customers. Jay's not much for talking, but he can be very understanding.

While Tom's hands work, his mind clears. His pride returns, along with some of the anger. How could she have thought her dating someone else, kissing someone else, wouldn't hurt him? How the hell could she not have thought they were serious? How, unless she was deluding herself?

-ooo-

Sybil's managed to avoid Alec for the nearly two weeks since they went out, though she never thought she could miss canteen coffee so much. She's almost through with her volunteer shift on Friday, and looking forward to coming in tomorrow without having to skulk, when he corners her outside a supply cupboard.

"You've been avoiding me," he opens, flashing his brilliant smile. _Good Lord, he's like Brandon Lee in a white coat._ Sybil blushes and starts to demur, but he's having none of it. "No, no, it's all right. I just wanted you to know that you don't have to keep skipping your coffee. If you're not interested I won't bother you."

"It's not that." Sybil decides that honesty is the best policy. "There was someone else I was seeing."

"Was?"

"Yes. I'm not anymore." She looks Alec in the eye. "It wasn't like I was cheating on him with you. We weren't exclusive." That's technically true, at any rate.

"Well, thanks for telling me." He only seems a little taken down. "Look, Sybil, I had a great time with you. I'd really like to see you again, outside of here."

Sybil continues honest: "Me as well."

He gives her a penetrating look. "I really like you," he says. "I don't want to be your rebound."

Sybil sighs. "It wasn't a serious thing." It seems to her like the hundredth time she's uttered some variation of that phrase.

Alec cocks his head. "Okay," he says, "fine. So how about you give me a ring when you've gotten over him." And then he smiles again, gives her shoulder a squeeze, and walks off.

-ooo-

Just to top it all off, just as the reeking bloody cherry on Tom's shit sundae, his father rings a few days after all this has happened. As usual Bill Branson is jovial, friendly, just as if it hasn't been two years since they last spoke. Just as if it hadn't been a year and a half before that.

"Da," Tom says coldly. _I don't have time for this_. "How are you. How's... Glenda?"

"Gloria. She's grand," Bill answers. "We just got back from a cruise in the Caribbean. She loved it. She's red as a bloody lobster."

_How nice for you_. Tom waits in silence: there's always something.

"Listen, Tommy. I happen to be in the neighborhood..."

Tom stops himself from saying _Oh, you know where I live, then?_ with some difficulty.

"...and I was thinking we should catch up. Fancy a meal?"

Tom grudgingly suggests a certain pub and suppresses the urge to ask Bill what he really wants, just to get the whole deal over with. "Is Gloria coming?" From what he remembers of his father's third wife, she's a deeply silly woman, but she'd at least act as a buffer.

"No, she's home in Dundalk. Just you and me, son."

_Son_. Tom manages to hold back his laughter long enough to finalize their arrangements and ring off, but it bubbles out once he's broken the connection. It doesn't sound amused at all.

-ooo-

A conversation with Mary is just what Sybil needed, and when Mary invites her to Manchester for the following weekend she accepts gratefully. The prospect of spending a couple of days with her sister, talking and laughing like they're teenagers again, is a balm to her bruised heart. "It's lovely of you to sit and listen to me moan," Sybil says.

"Don't be too appreciative. I've got you on speaker and I'm doing some work as well. Sorry."

"God, I hope you've closed the door."

"Don't worry, Matthew's out. Your sordid secrets are safe with me."

"I do appreciate it, though," Sybil chuckles. "Edith would've rung off half an hour ago."

"Oh, _Edith_," Mary groans in disgust. "She'd probably just pump you for details to put in her next book."

Sybil doesn't bother contradicting her. Mary's not wrong, and in any case she'll always think the worst of Edith. The elder two Crawley girls have never gotten on well, and there's been active hostility between them since their secondary school years, when Edith was the suspected source of some scurrilous gossip about her older sister. Now they avoid one another whenever possible; when forced together, they treat each other with icy disdain on one side (Mary's) and affected unconcern on the other (Edith's). It makes Christmases rather a trial.

Sybil goes back to moaning. "Honestly, though, Mary, he acted like he thinks he owns me or something! Some feminist," she scoffs. "We never _said _we wouldn't see other people."

There's a long pause on the other end of the line. "Sybil, I don't want you to take this the wrong way," Mary says finally.

"But?"

"Only whenever you talked about Tom, it sounded like he might have thought you were... together. In an exclusive way. And it didn't seem as if you'd ever specifically said anything to disabuse him of that." Mary hesitates again, obviously treading carefully. "How did it feel to you, when you went out with this... Alec? Did you feel like you were doing something that was right?"

Sybil exhales noisily, but has to admit the truth. "No. It didn't feel right." She massages her forehead. "And I felt _really _awful once he'd kissed me."

"So basically you were following the letter of the law, but not the spirit," Mary judges.

She hadn't thought of it that way. "Maybe you're right." She sighs. "Can we talk about something else? It's making me sad to keep thinking about this."

"Of course, darling. Whatever you like." When Sybil remains silent, Mary forges on. "I'll get the guest room all ready for you, and I'll clear my diary next weekend. No work at all for two whole days. What shall we do?"

Sybil lets out a laugh that she has to cut off abruptly when it threatens to turn into a sob. "Eat ice cream and watch stupid romantic comedies?"

"All weekend long. I'll lay in a supply."

-ooo-

To Tom's surprise, his father forgoes his customary crushing handshake of greeting and instead envelops his son in a bear hug. The man's smell - aftershave, cigarette smoke, a sour hint of beer - is much the same as it was when Tom was small, and an unexpected wave of nostalgia washes over him. That's as demonstrative as Bill Branson gets, though, and he avoids Tom's eyes as he sits down and lights a fag. They order pints and food, and an awkward lull settles over the table. "So how are things?" Bill asks. "You still fixing bicycles?"

"Fine. And I am."

"You planning on doing that for a while then."

Tom doesn't feel like going into his fledgling career in journalism, or the band, or anything else, really. "It pays the bills."

"Nothing wrong in that," his father says. "Any girlfriends?"

_Well, I thought I had one, Da, but she cheated on me and then I took a page out of your book and called her a cunt and she fucked right off_. "No."

"Shame."

Tom rolls his eyes behind another swig from his pint, which is already half drained. Bill's barely touched his, which is somewhat remarkable.

The food arrives and they tuck in, grateful for the excuse to be silent. Tom's three quarters through his roast beef, wondering whether they might actually come through this without any unpleasantness, when his father pushes his own plate away, clears his throat and sips his beer with the air of one nerving himself up for the big ask. The man's eyes seek Tom's: they're a faded-denim shade of blue that look more like an echo of his son's than vice versa.

"I've got something to tell you, son."

He won't ask for money, then; that's a relief. Gloria must be working again.

"I have cancer."

The beef in his mouth may have just turned to sawdust. Tom sets down his knife and fork, washes down the food with what's left in his glass. His father never takes his eyes from his face.

"Of the liver," Bill goes on. "Stage four."

"What does that mean?" Tom finally asks.

"They've said I have six months. Maybe a year."

"I'm sorry." The annoyance he felt before is gone, but he doesn't feel sad. Numb, more like. Shocked. "You don't look sick."

"Apparently that'll be along a bit later."

Tom casts about for something else to say. "Do the others know? Does Mam?"

"Not yet, and I'd thank you for letting me tell them in my own time."

And them in Ireland, too, except for Cieran. Tom always was his father's favorite, for all the good that did. "What are you going to do?"

Bill shrugs. "Nothing to do. The doctors say it's untreatable. Go home and wait to die alone, I suppose."

_William Branson, master of the guilt trip_. He's not going to fall for it this time. "Good job you've got Gloria." He looks directly into Bill's eyes as he says it.

His father's gaze drops away. "Maybe I'll get lucky and my children will visit me on my deathbed," he mutters. When Tom is silent, he makes a motion as if to take out his billfold, a motion that Tom knows from long experience is a sham. "Well. I just wanted to see how you were getting on. And tell you my news face-to-face."

Tom takes out his own wallet, standing up and tossing a few notes onto the table. "So you've seen," he says, as he turns away, "and you've told me."

-ooo-

By nine o'clock the next Saturday evening, they have consumed more wine than ice cream, and Sybil seems to be feeling considerably better.

Mary ejects _Pretty Woman_ from the VCR, ignoring Sybil's chiding at her failure to rewind the tape. "Now, we've got a pile to get through," she overrules. "What do we want to watch next: _Singles _or _Overboard_?"

"Ugh, I'm tired of sitting," Sybil complains. "Let's go for a walk or something. Is there a pub near here?"

Mary makes a face. She hates noise, being jostled, and beer. "Not one I'd go to." Then she remembers why they're here. "Except for your sake, of course."

Her baby sister laughs. "I won't subject you to that. But let's do get out of here; I feel like my brain's about to leak out of my ears."

Ten minutes later they're walking briskly down the quiet street, lit by ornate streetlamps and the entry lights of tastefully refurbished row houses like Mary's.

"I wonder who lives in these," Sybil muses.

Mary doesn't know. She's only met a couple of her neighbors, and them just to say hello to. "Yuppies, like me and Matthew, I suppose," she answers.

"And people with trust funds." Sybil smiles ruefully. "I'm sure it's expensive, living in this neighborhood."

"It is, rather." Mary does not share Sybil's guilt at being from a wealthy family.

"It's just so strange, working every day with the poorest of the poor. Most of the time they're sick mainly _because _they're poor," Sybil says. "And then to come here, or go to Mum and Dad's house, and everything's all clean and orderly and costs a pile of money, even though it doesn't look it."

"I know it seems unfair," Mary sighs. "But what do we do about it? Give all our money away? We'd only impoverish ourselves. And we've seen well enough that Communism doesn't work."

"Yes." Sybil falls silent again. "There is a balance, though," she says after a minute, "between forced redistribution of everything, and... robber barons just grabbing all they can and kicking everyone else down. Tom said - " she cuts off suddenly, and a spasm of pain crosses her face. "God, why does everything make me think of him."

Mary's heart twists in sympathy. She reaches over to take her sister's arm, pat her hand. "When you think about someone that much for a while, it's not easy to stop all at once."

Sybil flings herself down on a bench and leans forward, her elbows on her knees. "Mary, am I a stupid person?"

Mary sits down with her. "Darling, you're a warm and open and generous person. You're much more inclined to love people than to hate them or distrust them. And as lovely as that is, it can get you hurt if you're not very, very lucky."

Sybil swallows. "I just keep coming back to what he said. What... what he called me. I mean, no one would say that who wasn't a bastard, right? Not to someone he lo-someone he cared about."

_No, he wouldn't. He's probably a bastard_, Mary doesn't say. Instead she makes her voice perfectly even: "Well, it doesn't look good on him."

"So that's me, falling in love with... with _that_." Sybil turns away and raises her hands to her face. "I did, you know," she says, her voice rising and thickening as her shoulders begin to shake.

And Mary wraps her arms around her sister and holds her close. She thinks that if Tom Branson were standing in front of her right now, she'd like to hit him as hard as she could.

-To be continued-

Appendix D

Sybil's breakup songs

The Raincoats: "No One's Little Girl"

Patsy Cline: "Tra-la-la-la Triangle"

Bikini Kill: "Star Bellied Boy"

The Vaselines: "You Think You're a Man"

Heavens to Betsy: "Decide"

Dead Can Dance: "The Wind That Shakes the Barley"

Slint: "Don, Aman"

Buzzcocks: "Ever Fallen in Love (With Someone You Shouldn't've)"

Leonard Cohen: "Take This Longing"

Pretenders: "I Go to Sleep"


	10. Chapter 10

_AN: Thanks to emleng93 on tumblr for pointing out the appropriateness of "Train in Vain" for Tom's situation/feelings!_

* * *

August 1993

The first time she sees him out is in the pub where their bands played together, where they met. _How fitting,_ she thinks. They ignore each other, calibrating their movements to stay at opposite sides of the room, but she can feel his eyes on her like a weight. _Talk about the oppressiveness of the male gaze. _Finally she can no longer bear the tension and turns to meet them.

They share a long, electric look, suffused with resentment and not a little longing. He breaks it off with a jerk, turning and walking into the hall that leads to the toilets. She goes after him.

She catches the men's room door just before it closes, slamming it to behind her and twisting the lock. They hover a few feet apart for a silent moment. Then their bodies are pressed together, his mouth hard on her neck. _That's going to leave a mark,_ she observes, not caring.

She's wearing a skirt, a short one. He drags the hem of it up her thighs, his hands groping her flesh. She gasps when one finds its way inside her knickers. He rubs her with desperation and no finesse; it's too much, and she twists away from his touch. He's straining against his trousers. She undoes them and shoves her hand inside, stroking him roughly. He lets out a low growling sound.

"I want to fuck you," he mutters into her ear, the first words they've exchanged. Or did he say "destroy"? She's not sure.

She scowls into his eyes, an inch away from hers. "So fuck me," she challenges. He boosts her up onto the vanity, hastily moves her clothing aside and shoves himself into her with a grunt.

Their coupling is urgent and animalistic, all gritted teeth and guttural noises. She squeezes her eyes shut, meeting his violent thrusts with her own, straining, striving for a conclusion-

Her eyes snap open. "Shit," she spits into her dark bedroom.

She lies there for a few minutes, waiting to see if the itch will dissipate and allow her to go back to sleep. It doesn't. Finally she reaches down to take care of herself. Images and sensations from her treacherous subconscious flood in: his rough hands, his bruising lips. The cold blue blaze of his wounded eyes. Less than a minute later her body arches, stiffening, then relaxes. She rolls over and drifts off.

-ooo-

When they actually do meet it's much less dramatic. Tom spots her almost as soon as he walks in the door. She's standing off to the side of the stage with her friend Anna, talking animatedly. He goes up to the bar and buys a lager, vacillates about whether to try speaking to her. She's undoubtedly seen him by now.

_We can't ignore each other forever,_ he decides: may as well rip off the plaster now. He scans the room, not finding her, then turns around to see her coming toward him with a determined look. _All right, let's get this over with._

"Hi," he greets her. His mouth's suddenly a desert.

"Hello." She gives him a guarded smile, then her eyes leave his face to dart around the room. "I wondered if I'd see you here."

"Oh?" _This isn't awkward at all, no._ "So how've you been keeping?"

"Fine." Another look over his shoulder. Clearly she can't wait to get away. "Well. It was nice seeing you," she lies. She waits for him to nod assent, then turns to walk away.

"Sybil." Before he can think about it, Tom shoots his hand out and grasps her wrist. She looks down at his hand like it's a snake, but he won't get another chance. "I'm really sorry," he tells her, "about everything."

She regards him intensely for a moment, her expression unreadable. He releases her arm, but she stays where she is. Finally she blinks and presses her lips together. "Thank you," she says. She hesitates, as if she's going to speak again, but then just turns and goes off into the crowd.

-o-

"Feel better?" Anna asks, when she gets back to their spot by the stage.

Sybil grimaces. "Not really."

"Well, least said, soonest mended. That's what my mum always says." Anna hands back Sybil's glass. "Drink up. Band's about to start."

-ooo-

The next week Tom gets a postcard. On the front is a view from the floor of the auditorium in the Grand Theatre, rows of gently shining bulbs climbing up to the ornate central chandelier. On the back is a terse message:

_Tom -  
_

_I'm writing because when I saw you last week, I didn't say what I meant to. I don't want for you to think that I don't realise I wronged you, or that I'm not sorry. I want you to know that I do, and I am._

_Sybil_

It doesn't give him as much satisfaction as he thought it would, an apology from her. The impersonal tone; the fact that it's tangled up in double negatives and mixed tenses: both lessen its impact. He keeps the card anyway.

-ooo-

Sybil settles into a rather ascetic lifestyle. Fall term starts near the end of August, and the final year is demanding, so she can't go out much if she wants to keep her marks high. She still volunteers at the clinic on a limited schedule, and whatever free time she doesn't spend studying is earmarked for the band. Practice and gigs are some of the only times she even drinks. She's surprised-and not displeased-when it occurs to her in mid-October that she hasn't been drunk since summer. She falls into bed exhausted almost every night, too busy even to think of men or sex very often, let alone pursue them. Even her hurt over Tom fades into a background ache. Alec rotates out of her hospital at the end of summer, and despite being as over Tom as she thinks she ever will be, she does not ring him.

She feels like she's in a holding pattern until she graduates. She doesn't want to go into public health administration; she'd rather be a nurse. But that would mean throwing away half her degree and going back to school, and that's a paralyzing thought. So she makes no plans and applies for nothing. She starts entertaining the idea of concentrating on music more seriously, going on tour with the Rough Riders and maybe even finding another band. She begins noodling around on her acoustic during spare moments at home, coming up with chord progressions, humming and then singing countermelodies. Writing lyrics; dismissing them as the immature ramblings of a naive little girl; tearing them out of her notebook and crumpling them up. Writing more.

Anna invites her over for dinner one weekday evening. Sybil's met Anna's fiance before-she and Anna have visited him at the pub several times-but he's either been asleep or at work whenever she's gone to their house. John Bates is several years older than Anna and rather handsome despite his mildly pockmarked skin. Sybil likes him: he's as reserved as Anna is bubbly, but has a subtle sense of humor and a kind smile. They're obviously gone on each other, constantly exchanging little touches and in-jokes, but they're one of those couples who manages to make the third wheel feel welcome.

Sybil arrives at their house early and the three of them hang out companionably in the kitchen, Anna and Sybil drinking wine and eating cheese, giving bits of it to the cat, while John stirs bolognese at the stove. Sybil inquires about their wedding plans ("Anything with the word 'wedding' anywhere near it costs ten times as much," Anna complains) and John asks Sybil how school is going ("I'll be done in May. That's how").

The telephone rings as they're dishing out the salad. "Don't touch that," John snaps before Anna can do more than twitch towards it. Sybil looks at the table, uncomfortable. She's never even seen the two of them disagree before, much less heard him use such a sharp tone.

"It's her, isn't it?" Anna's voice is tense.

"I'd wager so, yeah. She was ringing and hanging up all day while you were at work."

"Who's this?" Sybil ventures, once the phone stops ringing.

Anna sighs and rolls her eyes. "John's ex heard he was getting married and decided she wanted him back, or if she couldn't have him back, to make his life miserable. She's mounted a... a campaign of harassment."

Sybil just nods.

"You know, it's only a matter of time before she shows up here," Anna tells her fiance. "She'd better hope I'm not here when she does."

John smiles tightly. "I rather hope you are. I'd quite like to see that."

"I'm serious. Fucking Vera." Anna spits out the name with more venom than Sybil has ever heard in her voice.

The phone begins to ring again, and everyone at the table stiffens. Anna jumps up and rips the cord out of the jack. "Well, she won't ruin our dinner," she says briskly, forcing a smile, taking a gulp of her wine before she sits back down.

But a pall has settled over the room. Sybil's mind turns to love gone wrong and all its repercussions. She supposes she's lucky: Tom could be ringing her every twenty minutes. _She _could be the one calling, the one who can't let go. That would be worse in a way. She almost feels sorry for Vera, the unwanted one, whoever she is.

"So you're coming in to lay down tracks Friday and Saturday, then?" Anna asks brightly. Sybil nods; she's booked studio time for the Rough Riders. "I'm on those days, so I'll probably be in there with you. Adjusting mics and getting water for the engineer." She rolls her eyes.

John squeezes her hand. "They'll have you be lead on something soon."

"Not bloody likely," Anna scoffs.

"They will on our demo, if I ask them to," Sybil says. "Won't they?"

"They might at that. You sure you trust me?" Anna raises her eyebrow and smiles.

"Of course. You've been working there ages, right? You've got to have learned something."

Anna punches her playfully. "Seriously, though, I'd love it if you did ask them."

"I'll ring tomorrow. I _am _a paying customer, after all." Sybil grins at her friend.

-ooo-

For his part, Tom does not live monkishly. He throws himself back into the band, into the scene. Sack Thatcher has been signed to a tiny label, a local one, not one of the ones they gave their demo in London. They book more gigs in Leeds and the surrounding area, record a set of songs for an EP that they'll put out after the new year. Tom goes out to see or play shows, drinking copiously and coming home to write furiously, still three-quarters pissed. He awakens hung over more often than not, his desk covered in typed paper with incomprehensible notes scribbled in the margins. He even keeps some of it.

Tom's editor at the _Independent _shuts him down on the IRA story-too much potential for blowback-but encourages him to keep contributing arts and culture stories and to dip into local politics. For now, it's enough. He finds that the more he writes about music, the more he likes it. Leeds has a fertile scene and he's got plenty of connections.

He strikes up a with-benefits arrangement with a girl named Lila, a leggy brunette who's even less interested in a serious relationship than he is: he only ever hears from her after eleven. She rings once or twice a week to summon him over. She's told him in passing about her fiance, an army sergeant stationed in Belfast. The irony is not lost on either of them. He still thinks of Sybil more than he wants to. It usually happens in the space between three and six lagers, so he tries to close that gap quickly, with a few more for good measure: otherwise he'll do something stupid like ring her up at one in the morning. He thinks of his father, how at his age Bill was probably also honing his drinking skills to a sharp point, the better with which to gut himself. Tom can't bring himself to care much. He's bleeding coping.

One morning early in autumn he wakes up, head splitting, to find his room festooned with torn-out cassette ribbon and a screed in his journal detailing his and Sybil's relationship in fabulously inebriated fashion: lots of all-caps and profanity. He hadn't even realized he still had that mixtape.

-ooo-

Even though it's a Sunday, Sybil makes an exception to her informal no-going-out-and-getting-arsed rule for Halloween. There's always a show somewhere in which local bands channel famous classic ones, learning their songs and dressing the part, and it's loads of fun. This year it's Gang of Four opening for The Clash... who just happen to be played by Sack Thatcher.

It's fairly easy for Sybil to rationalize going. Her friends will be there; it'll be a good show; it's bloody Halloween, and what else is she going to do-dress up as a sexy witch and go to Hard Rock Cafe to get hit on by tourists? And after all, it's been ages and she's over him! Really.

Still, she arrives late to minimize the potential for awkwardness. When she and Gwen and Ethel come in everyone's already bouncing around to the opener-of course the Leeds kids know every Gang of Four single. Ethel's still staying impressively sober, but she orders a Guinness: to celebrate the Rough Riders' successful recording session, she says. Gwen and Sybil get liquor drinks and Sybil's done with hers in record time. _Apparently my nerves need a bit of steadying_, she thinks sardonically, winding her way back to the bar. So far, however, the coast seems clear of Tom or any of his fellow band members.

The three of them talk band business. They've still got to lay down vocals and mix the recording, not to mention mastering and duplication and deciding what they'll do with the thing once it's done.

Sack Thatcher comes on stage and it's amazing: they're almost unrecognizable. The swagger, the clothes, even the hair (_did he bleach it?_ Sybil wonders), are all exact copies of the source material. And that's before they even start playing.

They launch into "I'm So Bored with the U.S.A." and the room goes wild. Most of the set is drawn from the Clash's early records, though they do play "Rock the Casbah," to the crowd's delight. Doug, playing rhythm guitar, actually does a decent mimicry of Joe Strummer, and of course Hinksy throws himself utterly into becoming Mick Jones.

Sybil's tipsy enough to join the dancing throng before the stage for a while, but not enough to get right up front. When they start "The Guns of Brixton"-Tom's singing voice sounds nothing like Paul Simonon's, which isn't a bad thing-she withdraws to the edge of the room, even though she knows he won't see her from the stage, not in this packed crowd. Watching instead of dancing makes her reflective. Halfway through "Train in Vain" she thinks _Tom should be singing this_ and suddenly the pub seems terribly crowded and smoky and so she fights her way to the door and outside onto the pavement.

The air's clearer out here. A sprinkling of stars struggles through the light beating up against the sky from the city, and Sybil leans against the side of the building and looks up at them. She fights against the certainty that she's a horrible person. "_You didn't stand by me / No not at all..._" She knows that the letter she sent him wasn't even close to adequate. But there are only so many words that can be said about a thing, and it will have to be enough.

She considers just walking home, but it's a lonely thought and she shakes it out of her head. She came out tonight to have fun and be around people, and that's what she's determined to do. So she goes back inside.

She runs into Gwen, looking for her. "I thought you'd left!" Gwen shouts over the music. "Are you all right?" Sybil nods and mimes tipping a glass into her mouth, the universal signal for "I need another bloody drink." Gwen follows her to the bar and they drink shots. Ethel has vanished, but Sybil's feeling soft enough around the edges to take an optimistic view of the situation. _She's probably not doing coke in the toilet_, Sybil thinks, giggling a little. _She could be out shagging someone in a car_.

Their frontwoman is still not back by the time Clash Thatcher finishes their set, and Sybil's getting a bit concerned. She checks the toilets, just in case-no Ethel. She goes outside and walks around the building to the car park, surprising a group of kids passing around a joint, but not finding Ethel. Sybil heads inside to check once more before giving her up... and there she is, perched at the bar with a pint. Surrounded by members of The Clash.

Sybil quickly picks out Tom leaning on the bar on the far side of Doug, with whom Ethel's flirting madly. The frontman looks gobsmacked at his borrowed sex appeal. Gwen's there too, on Ethel's near side; Sybil goes and sits next to her, commenting into her ear, "I think our Joe Strummer's going to wear that leather jacket every night for the rest of his life!"

Gwen glances over and giggles. "It does look pretty good on him," she admits.

"We should do this next year! Play a show as The Runaways or something. We'd have more offers than we knew what to do with," Sybil half-jokes, and they both laugh uproariously. She glances up in time to see Tom's gaze flick over to her in the bar mirror. She catches his eye and widens her smile, which had been fading, and nods to him. It's enough to break the ice. He sidles over, can in hand, to say hello. He's a bit blurred as well, Sybil notices; it probably accounts for the lack of awkwardness. He's obviously feeling good: playing a show that goes well is as much a high as any drug.

"I didn't know you could sing so well," she says to him.

"There's a lot you don't know about me," he replies easily. Flirtatiously, she'd think if she didn't know better. Which she reminds herself that she does, despite the warmth in the slightly bloodshot eyes pinning her to her barstool. "So what are you supposed to be?" He asks, indicating her costume. It's not much of one: a form-fitting long-sleeved black shirt and trousers, hair skinned back, black eyeliner sweeping out towards her temples.

"I'm a cat burglar," Sybil tells him. "I didn't feel like putting in a lot of effort." That makes him laugh. She'd forgotten what a nice smile he has. Her stomach twists a little and her face starts to prickle, so she smiles back hard and dumps the last of her drink into her mouth, sucking liquid out of the ice. "That was a smashing set," she says.

"Thanks. When are youse playing again?" He waves a hand to encompass the three Rough Riders lined up at the bar. They've got a show next week, though as it turns out Sack Thatcher is playing somewhere else the same night. Tom promises he'll come to the next one; Sybil wonders if he actually might.

Tom notices his bandmates drifting away. "Well," he says, "see you soon."

"See you," she replies blandly, and he moves off. She watches him go sidewise, reflecting that Doug is not the only one who looks good in close-fitting jeans and a leather jacket.

Gwen, who's been studiously involved in talking to Ethel, looks back at Sybil. "Nice to see you two getting on so well," she remarks.

Sybil shrugs. "No point in us hating each other, is there?"

-to be continued-

Appendix E: Halloween 1993 setlists

**Gang of Four**

Natural's Not in It

I Found That Essence Rare

Not Great Men

What We All Want

Outside the Trains Don't Run on Time

Contract

Anthrax

Capital

Ether

Damaged Goods

**Clash Thatcher**

I'm So Bored with the U.S.A.

Safe European Home

Lost in the Supermarket

Complete Control

Rock the Casbah

The Guns of Brixton

Clash City Rockers

Janie Jones

White Man in Hammersmith Palais

Guns on the Roof

Train in Vain

Career Opportunities

Tommy Gun

Jail Guitar Doors

London Calling


	11. Chapter 11

_AN: This chapter's kind of a downer, especially where Tom's concerned. Better times are coming! As for music... well, just think of your favorite holiday tunes._

* * *

December 1993

Christmas at the cottage is comfortingly familiar. The only disappointment is not seeing Mary: she and Matthew are with Mrs. Crawley in Manchester this year. But it makes Edith more relaxed, not having her nemesis around, and Sybil is reminded of what a good conversationalist her sister can be in the right company. She's awfully witty, and she interests herself in a dizzying variety of topics, from car racing to knitting to the expat artist scene in 1920s Paris. Part of the job, Sybil supposes. Anthony is there as well and he and Edith play off one another all evening, finishing each other's one-liners. Anthony calls Edith "my dear" and punctuates nearly every address to her with a small touch on her knee or elbow or hand, and it warms up the room, how much he dotes on her.

No one mentions Sybil's relationship status. She told her mother a while ago that she was no longer seeing anyone, and Sybil assumes Edith has heard because she makes no remarks about grease monkeys or the inadvisability of dating musicians. The family's questions for Sybil mostly concern her plans for her future, a topic she's even less keen to discuss than her lack of a boyfriend. Violet presses her about graduate school - "the feminists were dreadful, of course, but they didn't do all that work so you girls could just throw away your education" - but Sybil manages to throw her off the scent with a strategic mention of Princess Di, who always arouses Granny's indignant sympathy.

After they've finished with dinner and presents, Robert drives Granny home and, fortified with wine, the four of them - Edith and Anthony, Sybil and Cora - bundle up and go into the village, walking two by two to see the lights of the grand old houses. December has been rainy this year, but tonight feathery flakes begin drifting down from the sky, and by the time they reach Downton's main street snow is falling thickly and starting to collect on the ground. The shops are closed for the holiday but there are lights and decorations in the windows. Cora puts her arm around Sybil's shoulders as they walk under the awnings, saying, "Happy Christmas, darling. I'm so glad you're home."

"Me too, Mum."

They go back and drink hot mulled wine in front of the fire until Edith and Anthony and Mum and Dad, yawning, drift off to bed. Sybil stays up a little longer, sitting before the hearth with the lights off, gazing into the embers and thinking aimlessly of the last year, and of the next.

-ooo-

Tom takes the train to Liverpool for Christmas dinner, as he has every year but one since moving to England. Cieran is as responsible as Tom is prodigal, with a thriving auto-repair business and two daughters whose flame-colored hair matches their mother Shannon's. They rush to show Tom their newly acquired treasures when he arrives at Cieran's semidetached shortly after noon, then just as quickly disappear to begin transforming the new toys into junk.

Tom and his older brother spend the early part of the afternoon as they have every Christmas the past few years: drinking beer and watching the pre-Boxing Day football commentary, making desultory conversation while Shann clanks around in the kitchen. "I suppose you've heard about Da then," Cieran mentions at one point, and Tom assents, and there's no more said about it. Cieran's loyalty has always been to their mother, and there's little chance of any reconciliation between Bill Branson and his eldest son.

Shann sets an abundant table, and Tom makes his return journey to Leeds well plied. The train is half empty, but to shut out the possibility of unwanted conversation he drops his Walkman headphones over his ears and leans back against the seat, closing his eyes.

On New Year's day he wakes up with the afternoon half gone, his mouth tasting of rot and still in his smoke-stinking clothes from the night before. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a drink napkin with a telephone number scrawled on, underneath a name he can't read. He has no memory of meeting any women last night, or of much else after arriving at the party. Waking up this way has become a disquietingly frequent occurrence, and in the shower he wonders how much longer it'll take before it no longer bothers him. Suddenly it'll be ten years from now and he'll be just one more in the row of drunks down the pub, a shambling pile of flesh and bone who once had ideas of doing something.

_This is ridiculous, _he thinks painfully, warm water pounding his face_. I've let a feckin' bird drive me to drink_.

It's just that he tends to become morose these days when he goes out, only perking up once he's got himself well and truly pissed. Staying in is even worse. He thinks back to when he saw Sybil on Halloween: an amiable enough meeting, but the inanity of it tore his heart out. He meant what he said about going to a Rough Riders show. When it came down to it, though, he couldn't face the idea of standing in the audience, paying their performance empty compliments afterwards, and going home without her.

Sometimes every cell in Tom's body tells him insistently that he _needs _to go to her flat, beg her to let him in, ask for another chance. They are equally adamant that she's the one who doesn't deserve another chance, and she'd just slam the door in his face anyway. But he has to put this behind him somehow: otherwise it'll kill him, or at least kill the part of himself he's able to respect. He's still trying to think of a way to get over Sybil when he's summoned back home.

-ooo-

January 1994

The call is not altogether unexpected. The surprise is that it comes from his mother.

His father is dying, she tells him. Not today, maybe not this week or next, but soon. Tom is to come home, and he is to visit his father in hospital. She still talks to him like he's twelve years old and dragging his feet about going to mass. "You'll stay with me," she says crisply. "Plenty of room. You should plan on a nice long visit; better fix it with your work."

On the other end of the line, Tom's still trying to wrap his mind around the notion of his mother advocating on Bill's behalf. Caroline Branson never badmouthed her children's father, but she's barely let an acknowledgement of his existence pass her lips in the fifteen years since he left. "Mam," he says slowly. "I saw him already. A few months back."

"And how was that then?" He can tell by the brassiness in her tone that she already knows the answer. "Satisfying? Said everything you wanted to say?"

"I've got nothing to say to him."

"You might think so." She clears her throat noisily. "Look, Tom, he's the only father you've got. And once he's gone, he's gone." Tom does not say what he is thinking, and the silence spreads out thickly until his mother breaks it. "Well, if you won't come to see him, come to see me," she says with renewed heartiness. "I hardly remember what you look like."

"I can't. My job - "

"Your job will let you off for a fortnight to visit your dying father. Even if you're not really visiting him." She has him there. "And you sound like you could use some time at home. You're getting an English accent."

He chuckles. "Not bl - not likely." But he knows he's lost: once his mother gets an idea stuck in her head she won't let it go. He won't be surprised if she does get him into that hospital room.

-ooo-

Once the duplicated cassettes come in, Sybil, Gwen and Ethel go to Anna's to put together the promo packages. They pour glasses of wine and form an assembly line: Sybil placing labels and tapes in cases, Ethel folding press packs, Gwen addressing padded envelopes to zines, indie record labels, pubs up and down England and Scotland. Anna, ever helpful, shoves everything into the envelopes and seals them. They chatter away cozily. Gwen bitches about the temp office work that's all she can get, despite her degree. Ethel says that Gwen could be worse off: she could be cleaning the offices, like Ethel. "Though occasionally you do run into a fit accountant or something working late," she confides with a smirk.

Anna snorts with laughter. "Fit _accountant_? There's two words you don't often hear together."

"Solicitor. Stockbroker. Whatever. We don't talk about their _work_."

"Ethel, you never get off with those blokes!" Gwen says with that wide-eyed look she gets when someone tells her something shocking.

"What if I do? We're both stuck at work; what's the harm in having a bit of fun?"

Gwen rolls her eyes. "You'll get sacked if you don't watch out," she admonishes.

They stay on once they've finished. Anna wants the company, since John's in London talking to a solicitor, sussing out whether anything can be done about Vera. She won't stop bothering them.

"I think Sarah O'Brien told her about us," Anna says darkly. "She's always looking for ways to get under John's skin."

"What's the deal with them anyway?" Gwen wonders.

"John used to work for her, back when Vera lived here and they were together. Then some money came up missing and she and that Thomas accused him of taking it." Anna sighs. "I've tried making nice with them for a while, but it's hopeless. They're just miserable bastards."

"Why'd he have to go all the way to London for a solicitor?" Sybil asks.

Anna sighs again. "Well, he says it's because he wants to use his army buddy's man." The fact that John is ex-military is news to Sybil. But then, she reflects, there's quite a lot she doesn't know about him. "But I think it's because he's set on going by Vera's as well. He says he wants to give her a chance to be reasonable." She rolls her eyes.

"Vera lives in London?" That's news to Sybil as well. "You sure it's a good idea for him to go talk to her?" Sybil has her doubts, if Vera is as volatile as she sounds.

"That's what I said. He wouldn't be put off it." Anna shrugs. "He'll see, though. The woman's demented."

"Well, I hope he comes back without any teeth marks," Ethel jokes, and they all laugh.

-ooo-

Lots of things have changed in the time Tom's been gone. His favorite record shop from his university years has closed, replaced by a chintzy club-wear boutique. Other businesses have opened and closed as well. Dublin retains its grubby rainslicked essence, though, and his mother's neighborhood is still the same. Her sitting room, too, is timeless. Her children's school and graduation portraits hang on the walls and sit on the shelves, looking brown and outdated. Cheap worn furniture, cheap dusty trinkets. Sitting there with a cooling cup of tea in his hand and the television on, he feels a stab of guilt at abandoning his mother to such a drab life. _I could at least have sent her some money. Visited more than once in four years_.

It's his third day here and Tom's starting to get restless, a feeling he remembers from the one time he came back for Christmas. Then, he only stayed three days. There's nothing to do in the house but watch telly and have stilted conversations with his mother and brother. Stephen's the only one still at home; he's in his first year at uni on scholarship and living with their mother to save money. Tom moved out when Stephen was only ten, and for many years before that he spent as much time out of the house as he could. Besides, Stephen was a child and beneath the notice of the brash older brother who was always frenetically active, popular, gregarious. So Tom remembers his younger brother rather vaguely, as a slight, quiet, intense kid. He's grown into a gangly, quiet, intense young man who spends most of the time he's at home up in his room.

Tom is in the girls' old room, which his mother has had neither time nor resources to redecorate since the younger of her two daughters left the nest. He sleeps on the sagging four-poster bed beneath Depeche Mode and Cure posters still taped to the flowered wallpaper. Orla, who taped them, has a bedsit in Temple Bar and works in one of the sleek coffee shops that have sprung up in Dublin's smart areas. She has not made an appearance since Tom arrived, but he senses a dark cloud of worry whenever their mother mentions her.

His other sister Kathleen came over for dinner his first night back. She's his closest sibling in temperament as well as age, and there was hugging and much laughing and talking over one another once she arrived. After the meal Stephen snuck off to his room and Kath opened two of the bottles of lager she'd brought, their mother shaking her head in benign censure while she stacked plates, smiling at the sight of them sitting at the kitchen table sipping and catching up. Kath talked more than she listened, always had, and Tom soon learned all about her "deadly dull" job at the post office and her live-in boyfriend Jack and their cats. They spoke more freely once Caroline withdrew to the parlor to watch quiz shows and smoke cigarettes: Kath told her brother about Orla, how all she did these days was go to raves and sleep all day when she didn't have to drag herself into work. "She always was a bit of a weirdo, but now she's so skinny and pale she looks like a feckin' ghost," Kath bemoaned. "Mam doesn't know what to do about her."

Tom didn't mention any of his own issues, though Kath raised an eyebrow when he refused a second beer. He'd answered simply, in the negative, when she'd asked whether he was dating anyone. Finally they got to the topic they'd been avoiding all evening.

"I've been to see Da a few times," Kathleen said. "Gloria too. She's usually there." When Tom said nothing, she pressed on. "Mam says you don't want to visit him."

"I don't."

"He's not like he used to be, you know," Kath said, getting up to open the window a few inches, tapping a cigarette out of her packet and lighting it. They sat in silence a moment, each of them calling up a particular, unpleasant memory. There were many, from the years when Bill Branson lived in this house. "He's mellowed in his old age." Tom snorted. "Talks about you quite a bit, actually. He always did like you best," she said without rancor.

Tom studied his empty beer bottle, turning it in circles on the table. "It's not that I think he'll fly off the handle, or anything," he said. "I... it's just all over between us. I've no desire to talk to him." He looked up at her. "And I sure don't owe him any fucking satisfaction."

"You're right. You don't. None of us do." She blew out a plume of smoke in the direction of the window. "It's more for you than for him, really. You never know, it might make you feel a bit lighter."

"I'll think about it," he told her. "I will."

And he has been. Today his mother is working the dinner shift and before leaving she sits in the easy chair in her uniform to lace up her shoes. "There're open visiting hours at the hospital at the weekends," she remarks.

Tom grunts noncommittally. "I thought I might walk around a bit. Look up some mates from school."

"If that's what you want to do." Her voice droops with words unspoken. She uses her hands to push herself up out of the chair. "Leftovers are in the icebox. You're welcome to them." She pauses by the archway to the front hall. "It's nice having you home, Tom."


	12. Chapter 12

_AN: I know things have been a little slow lately, but we're moving along, I promise. Skip to the end of this chapter if you want to get right to the Sybranson interaction. :) Thanks for sticking with it!_

* * *

January 1994

It's gray and wet outside, and the fluorescents lining the ceiling in the hospital corridor do little to dispel the chill on Tom's skin or in his heart. It occurs to him what a dreary place this would be to die, and he offers up a half-serious prayer that he'll be run down by a lorry while he's still in health. The door to his father's room is ajar. He stands outside for a second: _last chance to turn around_. But he knows he won't.

Gloria's in the chair next to the bed, leafing through the _Daily Star_. When Tom comes in she gasps a little and her pencilled eyebrows rise up her powdered forehead. Her hand flutters to her heart in an exaggerated gesture of shock.

Tom barely notices her. He stands at the foot of his father's hospital bed, his attention riveted on the body it contains. It doesn't look like Bill Branson: not the handsome young buck who perched his son Tommy on his shoulders and became a bellowing giant in his childhood nightmares. Not even the stoop-shouldered, balding pile of a man he saw six months ago. _He must've lost three or four stone,_ Tom thinks. And most of his hair's gone, even though he hasn't had chemotherapy in months.

Bill looks lucid enough when he opens his eyes, however. He doesn't smile, but his face relaxes into something that resembles contentment. "Howya, son," he rasps. He clears his throat, coughs. He can't stop coughing. Gloria jumps to her feet and picks up a cup of water from the nightstand, raises the head of Bill's bed to help him drink.

When he's got control of himself he brushes her hands away. "All right, stop your hovering," he growls, but not maliciously. "Sit, sit," he invites Tom, who's still transfixed at the foot of the bed.

"I'll just nip out for a cuppa," Gloria says, and makes herself scarce. Tom sits stiffly in the chair she vacated.

Bill indicates the tabloid on the nightstand. "Lot o' feckin' rubbish," he comments by way of an icebreaker.

"Yeah."

"Your sister tells me you're writing for some newspaper. I hope it's not like that one."

"No." Tom smiles thinly.

"Good."

A nurse comes in to lift Bill's gown and check on the tubes going into him. After she's gone Bill complains that things have come to a pretty pass when a man can't choose the manner of his death. "I never thought I'd breathe my last in a place like this," he tells his son.

He keeps talking: it's like he's afraid that Tom will leave if he stops. He talks about things that happened when he was young, things he thought, things he wanted to do and bitterly regrets never doing. The journalist in Tom pricks up his ears: he's interested despite himself. He finds himself nodding in agreement, asking questions. Having a conversation. He almost wishes he'd brought a notepad. Even reduced as his father is, he's a skilled storyteller. After a while Gloria tiptoes in to get her paper, then withdraws again. The sky is dark outside by the time Bill lays his head back on the pillow, clearly exhausted. "I should go," Tom says, rising.

His father opens his eyes. "You'll come back, though?"

"Yeah. I'll see you tomorrow." Tom's not sure why he's promising to return. Maybe he pities Bill for the need in his eyes. Maybe there's something in particular he's hoping to hear. Or it could just be the lure of a good story.

-ooo-

Dying is a slow process... until it isn't. Tom visits his father six days running. He reads while Bill dozes, or they watch telly and complain about how stupid it is. When Bill feels up to it, he talks. Some of what he says is interesting; some is utter self-pitying bollocks. Tom is inwardly both amused and saddened at his father's capacity for self-justification. Kath and Stephen drop by a few times. Orla even makes a single appearance, toting an oversized coffee cup and looking hollow-eyed.

On the seventh day he arrives to find his father in intensive care: his condition worsened drastically during the night, his organs are shutting down. It shouldn't be too long now, Gloria says. She's a mess, so Tom sits with her even though his father is drugged into unconsciousness and doesn't seem aware of his surroundings. Bill surfaces periodically, his eyes dull with morphine and pain. Kathleen comes up early in the afternoon and Tom leaves. _There's nothing more to see here_, he thinks. But he doesn't regret the way he spent the last week: far from it.

The funeral service and wake are well attended: apparently Bill and Gloria had plenty of drinking buddies. They take over the pub. Tom goes with his siblings, planning to slip out early, but it's all over once Bill's friends cotton on to the fact that his kids are there. He - "the famous Tom" as he's referred to more than once - has to listen to story after story about Bill's exploits. Some of them he's already heard from the man himself. It's amazing, he thinks, how his father could be one person to his family and someone totally different to everyone else.

He's glad to get back to Leeds and his life, newly determined not to waste it: watching his father's death gave him that much. Sybil... well. _Sybil can get along just fine without my help_, he thinks with only a little resentment. He's not got time to spend on mooning over her.

-ooo-

February 1994

She's going into a coffee shop near campus when she hears someone call from behind: "Sybil? Sybil Crawley?" A jolt of recognition goes through her at the voice: she turns and it's Alec Li. Her heart doesn't know whether to jump or sink. Suddenly she feels horribly guilty about not ringing him: why didn't she? He's a perfectly nice, attractive guy. What's _wrong _with her?

But he's clearly happy to see her, and there's no recrimination or even mention of her failure to contact him. They go inside and have coffee and talk and it's easy and he makes her laugh. He's in his last year of medical school and waiting to hear which residency program he's been accepted into, but he doesn't seem to be feeling much stress: he smiles and makes jokes and they get another coffee. Then he has to leave but before he does he asks Sybil if he can take her to dinner the next evening and she accepts.

They go to dinner and the conversation flows just as freely as it did before. They both smile and laugh and their eyes touch often and several times their hands happen to brush against each other and after dinner Sybil invites him up to her flat for a drink and one thing leads to another and really, it's just what she needed, sex. She hadn't realized how much she missed it.

Afterward, he tells her how glad he is that they ran into each other, he's thought about her quite often since he saw her last. And still there's no hint of reproach: he just seems pleased that things have gone this way. He's asleep in five minutes. Sybil lies cradled in his arm with her head on his shoulder and her hand on his smooth chest, and she allows her mind to travel to _what if_. To more dinners and more sex and celebrating his residency appointment and helping him move and maybe going back to school for a nursing degree or a public health master's. Long telephone conversations on weekend evenings and shorter ones on the weekdays, packing up her things and moving them to an as-yet-unseen flat in Sheffield or Cardiff or wherever he ends up working, him kneeling before her with a velvet box in some park in autumn. Being a doctor's wife; a baby with just slightly almond-shaped eyes. His long lean-muscled body in her bed every night. Her last coherent thought before drifting off to sleep is _And who's to say that wouldn't make me happy?_

She wakes early, when it's just getting light. She sits up in bed and admires the fine angles and curves of Alec's beautiful sleeping face, and she feels such a rush of gratitude towards him, for reminding her of what she's been missing, and she just wants him to feel good. So she slides down under the sheet and takes him in her mouth, gently bringing him to hardness, and she makes him come before he's even fully awake. Later in the morning he leaves her flat reluctantly, giving her a besotted look from the stair landing, and she feels a twinge of claustrophobia. But she's not going to fuck this up by resisting, not this time.

-ooo-

Six weeks later it's over. It's not him: he's perfect, so perfect that Sybil feels objectively foolish even as she's saying the words. It's the life he'll steer her towards. Gently, unintentionally and with love, he'll walk her into a box she doesn't want to be in.

She can't tell him that, though, so when he asks her, "But _why_?" She can only stare into her lap and mumble something about it not being the right time in their lives for a relationship. She looks back up at him and immediately regrets it: his expression is bleak and shocked, and the realization of how completely she's blindsided him brings remorseful tears to her eyes. She flees before they can fall, leaving him sitting at the cafe table with another inadequate apology.

-ooo-

April 1994

In April, Kurt Cobain commits suicide and it seems as if his bullet travels around the world. Kids hold vigils in parks and cry in the street: there are little shrines made up of photos and CDs and Nirvana t-shirts and packets of cigarettes. Tom's editor asks him to write a retrospective and feature for the week's issue and he immerses himself in that, interviewing prominent local musicians for their reactions. It's the most-read piece he's had published, eliciting hundreds of letters to the editor and congratulations from acquaintances whenever he goes out. People praise the quality of his writing, his insightfulness, his sensitivity to the subject matter.

Tom enjoys the accolades. But more importantly, the response gives him the confidence to expand his journalistic horizons. He writes to try and get on as a freelancer for a few different newspapers and magazines. He even applies for some full-time staff writer jobs.

A few weeks after the Cobain piece comes out he runs into Sybil in the street. He's seen her several times since returning from Dublin, just to say hello to, and he's finally gotten to the point where his gut no longer flops wildly at the sight of her. She's holding a bag from a record shop: he asks her what she got, and she tips the bag open to show him. The Jesus and Mary Chain, _Honey's Dead_. Kristin Hersh, _Hips and Makers_. He asks about the second one, which he's not heard.

"It just came out. She's in Throwing Muses." Tom gives her a blank look. "Kind of folky singer-songwriter stuff, a little depressing," she elucidates. "I listened to the beginning of three songs in the shop and had to buy it." She's silent for a moment and he's on the point of taking his leave when she says, "I read your Kurt Cobain article. It was great."

"Cheers." Tom wonders if that's the first piece of his she's read.

"Really, it was. You should be proud of yourself. Though I take it you're not heartbroken like everyone else."

"No." She doesn't look terribly broken up about it, either, so Tom tells her what he really thinks. "He was a great musician, a great artist. But he was a fucked-up bloke! He had everything in the world to live for, plenty of money, and he didn't get help with his problems. Instead he blew his brains out. It's a waste."

"I guess what he had wasn't what he wanted." She gives him an incisive look. "I noticed you didn't interview any women musicians." There's a teasing glint in her eye, but Tom feels caught out nevertheless. It hadn't even occurred to him.

"I guess I should've rung you, huh?"

Sybil laughs. "Ethel, not me. No one wants to read what the drummer has to say."

"That's not true. I'll bet you'd have given me some good quotes. You're so clever and idealistic." He forgets to be reserved and grins at her. Her cheeks go pink - Sybil always did blush easily - but she looks pleased. He speaks before he can think too much about it. "You still record shopping? I was just going to go down to Relics."

"Me as well," she answers, for a wonder. They fall into step together, and are soon chatting easily enough, mostly about music. They arrive at their destination, go through the bins, show each other things.

"Look, it's your EP!" Sybil exclaims as they're combing through the local music section.

"Yeah, don't buy it," Tom warns. "It turned out kind of shite."

"But I'd like to hear it," she protests.

"I'll give you one if you want it. I've got a stack of them."

"Now, how are you supposed to get any royalties that way?"

That makes Tom laugh. "It'll put me out about 50p. None of us are making more than pocket money off this."

She shrugs. "All right, if you insist." She looks at her watch. "Damn, I've got a meeting with my professor in half an hour. I'd better go."

They make their way up to the till and pay for their purchases, and then they're standing outside and Tom's not sure how to leave it. He's reminded of the time they went to the pub, how they hovered just like this before he kissed her, before she told him she didn't want a boyfriend. She's staring down at the pavement and he wonders if she's thinking of the same thing.

She raises her head and looks him in the eye. "I'm holding you to what you said," she tells him. "I want a copy of that EP. Tell you what, I'll buy you a few drinks sometime, and you can bring me one then." Tom opens his mouth to protest, but she cuts him off. "It'll make me feel better about taking money out of your pocket," she says, her eyes sparkling.

He gives in, even though he's not at all sure it's a good idea for him to drink with Sybil. "Fine."

"All right, I'll ring you. Or you me." She looks as if she's going to say something more, and then just heads down the street.

As he watches her walk away he realizes it's been a year since they met.

-o-

_I'd really like us to be friends _was what she almost said.

_I miss you._ She almost said that, too. Because it's true: she misses their easy conversations, making him laugh to watch the way his eyes crinkle up. Hanging out and reading or listening to music. She misses other things as well, but she pushes those out of her mind.

-ooo-

**Appendix F: Playlist of Death (and one Nirvana song)**

Bob Dylan: Knockin' on Heaven's Door

The Smiths: Asleep

The Replacements: Can't Hardly Wait

Husker Du, These Important Years

The Kinks: Death of a Clown

David Bowie, My Death

The Turtles, It Was a Very Good Year

Hank Williams, Angel of Death

Liz Phair, Easy

Nirvana, All Apologies


	13. Chapter 13

_AN: As always, thank you so much for the follows, favorites and reviews! A British guest reviewer brought to my attention some pretty glaring errors in Chapter 1, a few of which have propagated throughout this fic. Apologies and thanks to any British readers who've managed to make it this far in spite of them. :)_

* * *

July 1994

Sybil plops onto the barstool next to him, orders a cider and slides over a creamy envelope with Tom's name calligraphed on it.

"What's this, an invitation to your wedding?" he asks. "Who's the lucky bloke?" After months of record shopping together, of cycling around town and shooting billiards at the pub and watching videos, they can play like this.

She pushes against his bicep. "No, you git. My graduation party."

"Ooooh." His eyebrows rise and his lips round in mock anticipation as he tears it open and runs his eyes down it. "A dinner do. And me with my tuxedo at the cleaners."

"It's not that kind of party."

"Oh, isn't it?" He fingers the paper, which has linen woven in and literally feels like money, and eyes her skeptically.

Sybil fidgets and amends, "It's an early dinner. You could just wear a regular suit."

He loves how she just assumes he owns a suit. _Looks as though that funeral kit will get some more use after all_. "What are _you _wearing?"

"Nothing fancy. A dress." She gets even more fidgety. "You can wear whatever you want. I'd love it if you came."

He's actually a bit surprised he rates an invite. "Have you invited all of your drinking buddies?"

"Will there be anyone else there who you know, do you mean?"

"Basically, yes."

"Of course. I wouldn't subject you to my family all by yourself." She goes on to name some of the guests: Gwen and Ethel are coming, as well as Anna and John, who got married last month.

"Should I be worried?" Tom asks. "About your family, I mean."

"Of course not," she answers blithely.

-ooo-

"_Of course not," she tells me. What a load of bollocks_. Tom toys with his glass and tries not to be unnerved by Mary Crawley's stiletto-like stare. They're several tables apart, but Mary's disdain is palpable. _Well, if she thinks she's going to chase me off, she's got another think coming_. Tom is determined to stay to the bitter end, if only to show Sybil's sister he's not that easily cowed.

It's a posh crowd. In attendance are a number of Sybil's parents' associates, extended family members, and old secondary school chums. Most smile without showing their teeth and slip occasional sidewise glances towards the corner of the room where Tom and the rest of Sybil's friends are enjoying the free-flowing alcohol. It seems to Tom that the people at his table are having more fun than anyone else. They're also the most cheaply dressed. Despite Sybil's assurances, most of the men here are in bespoke suits, the women in cocktail dresses. Sybil herself has her hair pinned up, setting off earrings that drip, glittering, towards her shoulders. Her frock is short and gauzy blue and skims the curve of her waist in a way that makes it difficult for Tom to keep his eyes off her, especially the more he has to drink.

Mary marks his interest. _She doesn't miss a trick, that one_. Tom's becoming more and more certain that Sybil made a confidante of her eldest sister last summer. She's mentioned that they're close. It can't just be that his suit came from Penneys. Tom takes note of mildly curious looks from Sybil's mother and the other sister - they obviously know who he is - but only Mary's dark eyes, so unlike Sybil's guileless blue ones, contain any hostility.

Once dinner is over the guests are free to mingle, but Tom and his fellow proles stay put by unspoken mutual consent. Sybil manages to escape her hostess obligations and pull up a chair with them, the people with whom she's most comfortable, and they drink and chatter and decide where to meet once the party breaks up. Tom's deep in conversation with Sybil and Gwen and he doesn't notice that Mary's come up to them until he feels her standing at his elbow.

"Sybil, darling," she says with deliberately false brightness. "I don't believe I've met your friend." Her eyes bore into Tom's forehead; it's clear which _friend _she means. Gwen mutters something about going to find another drink and moves off. Tom doesn't blame her. Mary's even more intimidating up close.

Sybil flushes and a significant look passes between the sisters, but she only says, "Of course. Mary, this is Tom; Tom, my sister Mary."

"Lovely to meet you." She offers her hand.

Tom shakes it. "How do you do." He holds her gaze, but keeps his expression friendly. Her face is carefully blank; her eyes are cold obsidian.

She looks away first. She can't resist what she must consider a dig. "I hear you do amazing things with old cycles."

"My mother always encouraged me to learn a trade."

"She sounds like a sensible woman." Mary smiles coolly. "Sybil, people are going. Will you join us?" She nods toward the rest of the family, saying farewells at the door.

"Of course," Sybil says again, and with an apologetic glance at Tom, follows in her sister's wake. "I'll see you at the pub," she tosses over her shoulder.

-o-

Mum and Granny and Dad insisted on this: the elaborate dinner at an expensive restaurant, the guests she hasn't seen since she was small. Sybil supposes it's a form of one-upmanship among their friends, seeing who can mark their children's milestones with the most elegant parties. She makes a mental note to consider eloping when and if the time comes.

She stands with her family, thanking the guests for coming. As she's done all evening she accepts their good wishes, politely fends off their inquiries about her plans for the future.

After everyone's gone, the Crawleys perch in the lounge up front to reconnoiter and say their own goodbyes. "I thought that went very well," Mum says. "Catherine Gray said you looked perfectly lovely, Sybil." She beams proudly at her youngest.

Sybil has no idea which one Catherine Gray was. "Do tell her I said thank you."

"You remember her son Larry. He's at Oxford, you know. Catherine says we should set you two up." Mum's eyebrows rise hopefully and her dimples make an appearance.

Sybil only vaguely remembers Larry from their parents' infrequent get-togethers: a chubby youth a couple of years older who used to pinch her whenever no one was looking. She just smiles. "Thank you for the party. It was smashing." She kisses her mother on the cheek, gives her father a hug.

"Well," Violet says, "It's high time I went home. Congratulations again, dear." She stands, with the message clear that Robert and Cora should accompany her out. Edith and Anthony follow directly after.

Now it's just the three of them, Sybil and Mary and Matthew. "Will you come to the pub?" Sybil invites.

Mary shakes her head, while Matthew simultaneously makes an affirmative noise. Mary raises an elegant eyebrow at her husband. "What, do you _want _to go?"

"I wouldn't mind. I didn't get a chance to speak to many of Sybil's friends; it was rather a stiff affair in there, don't you think?" Matthew grins at Sybil and she smiles back; he's always been in her corner.

"I met a few of them," Mary tells him, her voice edged. She turns to her sister. "I didn't realize you were talking to what's-his-name again, darling."

"Tom, you mean?" It comes out sounding more combative than Sybil intends. "We're friends. It's been ages since all that happened."

"Sybil, I don't mean to be a killjoy," Mary says in that seen-it-all tone she has. She can be so maddening sometimes. "Only I remember, not so long ago, someone crying on my shoulder in the street."

Sybil swallows her irritation. _She'll always think of me as a child_. "Mary, I appreciate you looking after me - really I do - but I think I can decide who I'd like to be friends with. Now are you coming with me or not?"

"I don't think so," Mary answers. "I might drink too much and say something I'll regret." Which is a joke: Mary rarely takes more than a glass or two of cabernet. One corner of her mouth goes up to make it obvious that she's not entirely serious. "But you have a lovely time, darling." They embrace and separate, Mary watching Sybil disappear around the corner. "I do hope she knows what she's about," she says, "because I'm quite certain _he _does."

Matthew puts his arm around her shoulders and they begin strolling toward the car park. "Whatever do you mean?" he asks, smiling.

"Oh, don't pretend you don't know. You commented on it yourself. What was it you said about the way he was looking at her - 'eye-fucking'? Charming, by the way."

"I'm sure he's not as bad as you think."

Mary snorts. "You didn't see the worst of it when she came to stay with us. She was completely gutted."

Matthew leans over and brushes her temple with his lips. "Don't worry so much," he advises. "She'll be fine. Especially with you to look after her." He grins rather wickedly and shifts to a topic that's been in the back of his mind since they arrived at their hotel. "Did you happen to notice how big our bathtub is? It'll almost certainly fit both of us."

Mary smiles at that. "Trying to take my mind off things, are you? All right, darling. Let's go and test it out."

-o-

The real party is already in full swing by the time Sybil arrives. A billiards table has been commandeered. Jackets have come off, ties been loosened, tendrils of hair are escaping from updos.

"The guest of honor's here!" Ethel shouts. She's been hitting the booze hard since dinner and is well past tipsy. "Syb! Let me buy you a drink."

"I'll do that." Tom appears from the direction of the bar carrying two pint glasses. "A Bass for milady," he says, handing her one of them with a flourish. "English beer for an English girl." Sybil rolls her eyes.

"What about Irish beer? That doesn't look like Guinness." She indicates his glass.

"Guinness is too dear."

She settles into the snug with Ethel on one elbow and Tom on the other and proceeds to obey Mary's directive to have a lovely time. Drinks are drunk; music and films and plans for the immediate future are discussed. As a group, they have plenty to celebrate. Not only has Sybil graduated from uni (with quite good marks, she's happy to say), but Gwen's been hired on as an assistant for a friend of Sybil's father.

"I'd never have gotten it if I didn't know you," Gwen tells her gratefully. "I owe you a drink for getting me out of temp hell."

So Sybil has several drinks and her head is soon buzzing pleasantly. She lets the sound of music and voices wash over her in an indistinct wave, smiling at nothing in particular, just in a good mood. She glances to her right, sees Tom watching her, and widens her grin to brilliance.

His eyes crinkle in reply. "So, you've conquered university," he says in a chat-show-host voice. "What's next for Sybil Crawley?"

"Ugh, why does everyone have to ask me that?" She groans.

The mockery slips off his face. "I know how you feel."

For some reason she keeps talking. "It's not as if I haven't thought about it. I hardly think about anything else. I just..." she pounds her fist gently on the table. "I don't know why I'm so afraid to just choose a path. I can always switch to something else if I end up hating it. Right?" He nods, his eyes sympathetic. "I mean, you've done it."

"Still working on it," he corrects.

"But you're writing and people are _reading _it. You're at least on your way to doing what you want to be doing."

He laughs ruefully. "Sybil, I don't know if I'll ever be doing exactly what I want to be doing. I'm not sure I know what that is."

"Exactly my problem. I feel as though I'm just drifting." _My, this conversation's turning a bit heavy_, she thinks, and tries to lighten it up. "So forget life as a whole. What do you want out of... the next two hours?"

She meant the question flippantly, but his face stills and his eyes darken, holding hers. She can't look away; suddenly she can hardly breathe. A visual slides through her mind of him bending her over the pub table. The feel of stubble rasping against her cheek, ragged breath in her ear. Her cheeks grow hot. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

They look at each other for a long moment before he breaks it, plastering a grin across his face. "Breakfast," he says. "I'm starving. Want to go have some?"

-o-

Beryl's is full of pub refugees at this time of night, but they manage to snag a booth as someone's leaving. It's an interesting place: an American-style diner complete with chrome-trimmed tables and a jukebox. Tom and Sybil sit across from each other, the detritus of the recently departed patrons still between them on the table, until a harried young woman with "Daisy" stitched on her uniform shirt comes by to clear.

"I'll be back in a jiff for your orders," she says, clattering dishes into a bus tub and swiping at the table's surface with a gray rag, and then she's gone. "Coming, Beryl!" She calls when the cook caterwauls from behind the counter that an order's up.

"The food's good here," Tom says to Sybil, "but the real fun is watching the owner get cheesed off."

Soon enough Sybil gets to see an example of what he means. Their waitress is quick on her feet, but not fast enough for Beryl. "Daisy!" She bellows. "Is there any chance you'll pick this lot up before that entire table starves to death?"

"Coming, Beryl," Daisy squeaks again, walking and scribbling on her notepad at the same time.

Sybil laughs. "Talk about oppression of the working class."

"That girl's worked here for years. It can't be that bad," Tom says, shrugging.

Sybil raises her eyebrows at him like he's suggested abolishing the dole. "Some socialist you are. You're all heart."

"Yeah, well. I've only had it broken the once." He doesn't know what makes him say that. The whiskey he drank, maybe. Or the moment in the pub, the one that brought home to him what an idiot he's been, thinking they can really be friends. It's on the tip of his tongue to speak, to be honest with her: it would certainly be a change. But the most likely alternative to a sham friendship is even more devastating, so he just shuts his mouth.

He won't look directly at her, but he can see that she's gone still. The waitress returns to take their orders, which they give in faint, decorous voices. After Daisy moves off there's a brief silence, filled by Robbie Williams' voice from the jukebox.

Finally Sybil breaks it. "Tom," she falters.

He shakes his head, waves his hand. "I'm sorry. Forget I said anything." He raises his eyes and immediately has to drop them again at the naked emotion in hers. It occurs to him that he never did tell her he loved her.

"No. I - I'm the one who's sorry." Her hands twist together on the table in front of her. "We had something. I fucked it up." She bites off the words precisely. "I was blind and stupid and I fucked us up and I am so sorry." He thinks about how different this is from the cold postcard she sent him all that time ago, still somewhere in his desk. Looks up to find her eyes trained on his face.

_Are those tears? Shit_. He just wants to make her feel better so he smiles to break the tension and says, "Syb, it was a long time ago. And I acted a right bastard, if you remember. Plenty of blame to go round." Her face relaxes a little, though her fingers remain tangled together, white-knuckled. He reaches out and puts his hand over them. "Sybil. Really. It's all right." And it is: he forgave her a long time ago.

A long look passes between them, a less intense version of the one in the pub. He could lean over the table right now and kiss her. But he feels it would be manipulative to do so, taking advantage of her remorse. He's still not sure what's really going on in her head.

-o-

He puts her into a taxi. Sybil is both glad and sorry he didn't insist on seeing her home. Glad because she doesn't feel like doing the dance of offering him return fare and having him refuse it even though they both know he's watching every penny. Glad because she doesn't know if she'd be able to stop herself asking him up to her flat... just for a drink.

_Oh, do stop it_, she scolds herself. She knows very well what could happen, what she wants to happen. That's why she's sorry he didn't come with her.

The cabby is remarkably taciturn for someone in his line of work, speaking little more than to ask her which route she'd like to take, so she's left with her thoughts as the city glides past the window. Tom will never let her get close again, not truly. Look at the way he deflected her tonight. And why would he give her another chance? She's shown him she can't be trusted. But tonight in the pub: she knows she didn't imagine that. She can still see his eyes, dark blue fire, burning into her. She shivers.

_Good God, _w_hat's the worst that could happen?_ She's been trying to shield herself from rejection, and before that from - what? Feeling too much? She's been so stupid. So afraid to admit the full truth: that she loves him, that she's loved him for over a year. It's time to stop being afraid.

-o-

Tom walks back to his flat in a daze. He feels raw and exposed, but lighter than before. It's such a relief - more than he ever would have thought - to have her know how much she hurt him, and that it's all right, that it's past. But he still feels unsettled. He tries to untangle what exactly it is that he wants. Not to keep things bottled up until he's gasping his last in hospital, that's certain. He's told himself and told himself: It won't work. She's from too different a place. She doesn't even want him that way anymore.

But he can't keep it in any longer. He has to speak out, and if she rejects him, well... at least he'll know.

When he gets home he finds his mail on the kitchen table where Quincy dumped it. Bills; a music shop catalog; an envelope from _Melody Maker_, where he applied months ago. Inside the envelope is a letter inviting him to an interview, two days from now, for the position of staff writer.

-To Be Continued-

Appendix G: Songs of Bittersweet Longing

Blondie: Dreamin'

The Kinks: Sweet Lady Genevieve

Patsy Cline: Have You Ever Been Lonely

Cranes: Are You Gone

Nina Simone: I Get Along Without You Very Well

Velvet Underground: After Hours

Lush: For Love

Elvis Costello: Alison

The Shirelles: Baby it's You

Buzzcocks: Fiction Romance

Sonic Youth: Wish Fulfillment

Ella Fitzgerald: A Ship Without a Sail

Social Distortion: A Place in My Heart

Psychedelic Furs: All of This and Nothing

Stone Roses: I Wanna Be Adored


	14. Chapter 14

_AN: Thank you for reading and reviewing! Hope this chapter gives you a little something to be happy about. :)_

* * *

July 1994

Sybil can't blame him. Not for applying for the job - even though he never mentioned he was looking - and not for accepting it. It is his dream, after all.

She met him to go record shopping a week after her party and was still trying to work out what to say when he burst out with his news: _As it happens, I might have something to celebrate... _Apparently his interview went as well as it could have. Instant rapport with the editors and writers he met: a veritable mind-meld. They love everything he's written. They as much as told him he had the job, said to expect them to ring sometime this week. He couldn't stop smiling.

And she's happy, _so _happy for him when he rings her a few days later to say they've made the offer. "We have to go out and celebrate," she says brightly, "and _I'll_ buy the drinks this time."

"Not bloody likely," he retorts, but when they meet at the pub he lets her pay. He's full of his plans for the next few weeks: he's got to give notice at the cycle shop, find a place to live in London. It's shocking how bleeding _expensive _rents are, he says, but he has friends he can stay with and he's sure to find someone who needs a flatmate.

Of course she won't say anything, not now. If he doesn't return her feelings it'll only cause awkwardness in these weeks before he leaves, and if he does return them... well, the last thing she wants is to hold him back. Sybil wonders if he's not a little relieved at the chance to make a clean break. _Though we tried that before, and neither of us liked it much_. But in a new place, with a new job and new people - _new girls _- it might be different.

They're supposed to be celebrating, but neither of them drink much and the lulls in their conversation become longer and more frequent as the evening goes on. Her mind is full of the half-formed declaration she won't let escape. God knows what he's thinking about: how the hell he's going to afford a flat in London on an entry level writer's salary, probably. Finally she smiles apologetically. "I'm not much fun tonight, am I? I suppose I'm tired."

"Me as well, a bit," he admits. "I'll see you home." She tries to push him off, but he insists.

They walk in silence for a few blocks. The street is dim and the buildings put their faces in shadow and this makes her brave enough to admit: "I'll miss you terribly, you know."

"London's not that far. You're always welcome. Once I get a place of my own, of course."

"Yes, I can hardly sleep on the sofa if you're sleeping on it." She realizes what she's said and her cheeks go pink; she's glad he can't see it. She speaks again quickly to cover her embarrassment. "You know, I _have _been meaning to visit Edith more often."

"You think she'd let me crash on her sofa for a fortnight? Can I add her to the rotation?"

That makes her laugh, and she tucks her arm into his as they walk on. She glances up at his profile. They might be a real couple, heading back to their shared flat after a night out. Going home to watch a video, or fight about whose turn it is to clean the bathroom, or to love. Her heart aches.

He turns his head and meets her gaze, the whites of his eyes gleaming in the darkness. They walk into the light from a streetlamp then, and something about the look she catches on his face - an echo of what she's feeling? - gives her the nerve, when they reach her building, to say, "Come up."

She still doesn't know exactly what she's going to say. As it turns out, she doesn't get the chance to say anything right away. She doesn't even get the chance to turn on the light: as soon as her door closes behind them he kisses her.

-o-

He was thinking about it the whole way back: what he'd say once they were standing in the street outside her building. He never anticipated she'd ask him up. He certainly didn't plan to kiss her, at least not before speaking. But in the moment it seems like the thing to do.

Not that he thinks it'll work. Even as he moves toward her he's sure she'll turn her head or push him away. It's going to be so awkward: she'll look down and say something cruel and polite like _I'm terribly flattered, but..._ or else she'll be indignant and demand he explain why he had to ruin a perfectly good fake friendship. Instead of doing either of those things she makes a small, surprised noise in her throat. Then her arms snake around his waist, she leans into him, her mouth opens. Tom's heart pounds. Their desire is a wave that bears them to the sofa in the lounge. He weighs her down with his body, toes off his shoes to let them drop on the floor. His eyes are closed and her clean flowery scent fills his awareness. His hands tremble as they reach up to stroke her cheeks and slide through her hair. _This is happening, it's happening._

"Sybil," he breathes into her ear.

"Tom," she pants. Her mouth is hungry, consuming his, her hands clutch at him. But then she squirms and pushes against him. Pushes him off her. She says his name again, but soberly: "Tom. Wait, wait." Dazed, he sits up. She stands and goes over to the window.

She's a dark gray shape outlined in the light from the street. Her shoulders are bowed. "Sybil?"

"I can't do this." She sounds stunned. Looking at her bent head is anguish. "I can't just... sleep with you. Not with you. I can't go backwards."

He sits there completely gobsmacked. _Why would she... how could she think... _ She _still _doesn't know how he feels. _Because you haven't told her, you git_, he thinks.

He hardly knows how he crosses the room. But he's there, taking her hands, trying to draw her eyes into his. "Then let's go forward," he hears himself say. "Sybil. I love you. I want - " he can't get his thoughts in line before they spill from his mouth. He starts babbling about how she was all he thought about when he was driving across England on tour. He can't tear his eyes from her face. Her lips are slightly parted. A backing track in his mind plays a dumb litany: _please please please please..._

Her eyes find his and snap into focus. "I love you," she says. It's hesitant, incredulous.

His words dry up. His breath stops, his fucking _heart _stops.

Eventually his body catches up with what he's just heard and he can speak again. "You, ah... you do?" he asks carefully.

"I do. I love you," she says again, with more conviction. A small smile arrives on her face.

He's grinning like an idiot and his emotion is too big to keep in and it bubbles out in loud, joyous laughter. He has to wrap her in his arms, crush her against him, breathe her in. He pulls back to kiss her cheeks and notices the tears on them: she's crying, she can't be crying. He makes a sympathetic animal noise and wipes her cheeks with his thumbs, kisses them dry. "You weren't planning on telling me this?" he murmurs against her skin.

"I was. I was going to give you a speech and everything." She pulls away. "But then... you're leaving."

"I won't," he promises. "I'll ring tomorrow and tell them I won't take the job."

Her chin comes up and her eyebrows draw together. "Tom Branson, you will not. That's why I didn't say anything, because..." her hands flutter in the air. "You're going. We'll figure something out. It's not that far, like you said."

"Across the room is too far right now," he says, and she reaches up and kisses his mouth and he's known her body - knows it - but he resolves that tonight he will thoroughly reacquaint himself.

They keep the lights off; the glow from the window paints their skin silver after they've thrown off their clothes. He means to be slow and romantic but it gets away from him and they quickly become frantic, gorging on each other, mouths and hands groping everywhere they can reach. They join together and they're almost too enthusiastic to get into rhythm, him trying to touch as much of her skin to his as possible, needing his hands and mouth and thighs and chest on her, not ever wanting to leave her body. He feels the sweet pressure building; his movements and voice become uncontrolled, and the best part as the pressure releases is knowing this will all happen again.

Afterward they put bits of clothing back on and spend the night in the lounge, talking and listening to music. Sybil picks up her guitar and plays him some of the progressions she's been working on, singing what lyrics she's written, humming the melodies that don't have words yet. Tom can't keep his eyes or his hands off her and he has to request: "Say it again."

Sybil smiles. "I love you."

"And I love you." And then he kisses her. And again, and again, until he's lying on his back on the rug, Sybil riding him, his hands full of her lovely breasts. They take a shower, skins sliding together under the water until it turns cold. They dash to her bed and huddle naked and shivering under the covers. Eventually they notice that the windows are turning from black to blue, and they can hear city birds chirping outside. Sybil rubs her eyes and Tom realizes that his own are raw with fatigue. They sleep, limbs draped across each other's bodies, until the sun has long passed its apex.

-ooo-

Sybil awakens by degrees. She has to remember exactly how this feels: the shining realization that they're together, that she loves him and he loves her. She wants to wake up every day realizing it.

Tom's arm is flung across her abdomen. She studies his sleeping face for the first time in over a year. With those startling eyes shuttered and his features slackened in sleep, he looks younger, less intense. He's let his hair grow longer and it falls across his forehead. He's tanned from cycling every day: blurred lines, the ghost of a t-shirt, separate freckled throat and arms from smooth-skinned white shoulders. Sybil kisses the spot just above his collarbone where the soft, defenseless skin starts. Momentarily she's downcast at how foolish she's been, having missed so many opportunities to kiss him there, but then she has to laugh at herself for being so schmaltzy.

His hand twitches and stretches across her, his eyes open and he smiles. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing. Just happy."

"Me too." He reaches up to draw her closer, strokes her hair, kisses the top of her head. Then he wriggles away. "I'll be right back."

When he's done in the bathroom Sybil takes her turn. She goes and fills a glass of water in the kitchen, drinks it standing at the counter, refills it and takes it back to him. He drinks and sets it on the nightstand, looks her up and down slowly. There's a reason she didn't put a robe on. He cocks his head and half-smiles, reaching out towards her. "Come here," he says.

_Just like that_. She joins him on the bed and he pulls her on top of him, buries his face in her breasts, letting out a satisfied sigh when his mouth finds her nipple. His hands slide over her arse, he reaches between her legs. She wants him already and she whispers as much into his ear, moving down, slipping him half into her.

He groans, but moves away and rolls her over and kisses her. "You're not getting away that easy," he tells her, with that devilish grin that makes her wet. He kisses her breasts, her stomach, pushes her legs apart. Soon she's arching and crying out under his tongue, but he doesn't stop. He sucks on her, laps her up until she can't stand it; she jolts at each brush of his mouth on her. He backs off just enough, for just long enough. Then he's making her come again, he's moaning against her, his fingers caressing her from inside. "God, I could do this all day," he mumbles. She whimpers at the vibration his voice makes, the flicking of his agile tongue. "I love you, Sybil, I love you so much."

"I love you too," she says once she can speak again. And then: "I want you." She pulls at his shoulders. He comes up to her, sinks into her, and his eyes fall shut. They kiss and move slowly, making it last. Sybil draws her foot gently up his leg. His moans vibrate against her throat. If it's possible to feel both meditative and aroused at the same time, she does. "I can't believe we've been missing out on this all this time," she murmurs, voicing a version of her earlier thought.

Tom lifts his head and opens his eyes. "I've thought about it every day."

She shifts, moves her hips a little more intensely, smiling when he lets out his breath sharply. "Oh, _really_. How much of every day?"

He laughs and nips at her neck. "Enough. And you haven't?"

"I didn't say that." But that doesn't jibe with her resolution to be more open. "I've thought about it. A lot," she admits. She holds his gaze, even though it's an effort while she's talking like this. She feels more naked than she did when he was merely looking at her body. "I've dreamt about it," she murmurs.

His eyes blaze up: he's interested now. "Tell me," he asks. So she does. Shyly at first, but he coaxes her with his eyes and she can see how excited it makes him, and that kindles her as well. There's no embarrassment. After a short time there's no more talking either: just him with his arms tightly around her, his lips to her ear, saying her name as he comes.

- The End? -

**Appendix H: Songs of Love**

Wedding Present: Don't Talk, Just Kiss

Portishead: Glory Box

Billie Holiday: Let's Call a Heart a Heart

The Cure: Just Like Heaven

Bad Brains: Darling I Need You

Magazine: I Love You You Big Dummy

Ramones: I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend

Jesus and Mary Chain: I Can't Get Enough

The The: Love is Stronger than Death

The Smiths: There is a Light that Never Goes Out

Liz Phair: Supernova

T. Rex: Hot Love


	15. Epilogue

September 1995

Tom stops in the corner shop on his way home. There's nothing in the kitchen but towers of aging takeaway containers in the refrigerator, a couple of apples, and a third of a bottle of Bushmills: hardly an appropriate homecoming dinner. He wishes now that he'd taken the time to clean the flat, but between his job and freelancing there's been so much work that he's been hard pressed to keep moldy dishes from building up in the sink.

He emerges from the shop carrying a full shopping bag and a bouquet bought on impulse. It's hardly wilted at all, and she likes having flowers about, whatever she might say about them being bourgeois. Maybe he'll even have time to tidy up a bit. He walks down the darkening street, around the corner and then into a mews and he's home. There's no way they'd be able to afford this place on what he makes, or even on what two normal people make, but for a ten-minute walk to the tube station she's been able to convince him to swallow a little bit of pride.

Climbing the stairs he hears muffled music coming from behind their door, and his face breaks into a broad smile. Unless some burglars with a liking for Elastica have broken in, Sybil's back early. As he gets nearer the landing he can just hear her singing along. He props the shopping bag between himself and the wall to hunt for his keys, fumbles with the locks. Finally the last one disengages and the door falls open and he goes down the hall into the kitchen and there she is, belting out the song and washing up. She has her back to him and he stands in the doorway a moment, watching her. He feels a sudden wave of gratitude: he's so lucky. _They're _so lucky.

He sets down the bag quietly and goes up to embrace her from behind. She gasps and gives a little shriek, then turns and winds her arms around his neck. Her hair smells freshly washed, she's been here a little while at least. "You scared me," she accuses when she's done kissing him hello.

"You shouldn't have the music up so loud," Tom returns. "Someone's liable to sneak up on you." He reaches back around her to turn off the faucet; she smirks and gives him another kiss.

"I've missed you," she purrs against his mouth.

_Not as much as I missed you._ "Me as well." He rubs her back. "Leave this," he says of the half-tidied kitchen. He realizes he's almost shouting. "Can we turn this down? I can't hear myself think."

"If it's too loud, you're too old," she quips, but she goes into the lounge and lowers the volume enough that it no longer feels like Justine Frischmann's sneer is invading his head. "Are those for me?" Sybil asks when she returns, gesturing at the flowers still in his hand.

Tom had forgotten about them. "Right. Welcome home, my darling." He holds them out.

"They're lovely. Thank you." Her eyes lock on his as she tosses the bouquet on the table; the next few minutes are taken up with the feel of the smooth skin of her arms, her lips, the scent of her hair. Finally she mumbles, "I suppose I should put them in something." But she doesn't move.

Tom reaches up and grasps her forearms loosely, unwinding them from his neck and kissing one of her palms. "Are you hungry? I bought bread and cheese and wine. Indoor picnic sort of thing." He starts to unpack the shopping bag and goes into the silverware drawer for a corkscrew.

"Sure." Sybil gets out the cutting board and looks for a knife. "I see you didn't bother much with housekeeping while I was gone," she comments drily. Most of the dishes are either in the sink or the drainer.

"No time," he says lightly. "A journalist's work is never done."

She snorts. "Too many rock stars to interview?" She pretends to inspect one of the dirty plates. "I'd better not find any coke residue on these."

"Ha. Mostly I've been digging through piles of CDs trying to find decent ones to review." The A-list interviews generally go to the more senior on staff, for good or ill. Tom washes two wine glasses and pours them full. "You want to eat in here or the lounge?"

"Lounge, please."

They set themselves up on the sofa with food and wine, eating with their fingers. "So how was tour?" Tom asks.

"You know very well how it was. You only talked to me every other day." As well as exchanging mail at least twice a week. Sybil's new band has two not-unattractive blokes in it and even though they both have girlfriends, Tom's been determined to make damned sure he's top-of-mind. "Oh, I forgot to mention I saw your guitarist when I was in Leeds," Sybil tells him. "He said for me to tell you to fuck off and die."

That sounds like Hinksy, all right. He'd been a bit upset when Tom told him about the job opportunity. "Don't know what he's still so pressed about," Tom mutters. "I thought they'd found another bass player."

"Oh, he was just playing about. And Gwen and Ethel said hello."

"Did you get to see Ethel's kid?" Since Ethel announced last year that not only was she pregnant, she was keeping the baby, she's surprised everyone and done a complete turnaround. She's even talking about going back to school.

"He's a tremendous baby. Very sweet." Sybil smiles ruefully. "Though I was rather glad to be able to hand him back when he started crying."

Babies. What a foreign concept. _Maybe someday._ "But now that you're back," Tom says. "Now that tour's done with, what do you think of it?"

Sybil considers. "I don't know," she tells him. "It was fun. I love playing. It just... it feels a little shallow, you know? I feel like maybe I should be doing something more meaningful with my life than being up on stage with a lot of drunks staring at my tits."

"You can't blame them," Tom jokes, "you do have very nice tits." He dodges Sybil's playful smack and leans in to kiss her. Her mouth tastes of wine. Before long they're reclined together on the sofa, lighter by several articles of clothing, provisions forgotten.

"Mmm," Sybil murmurs, running her fingers along the frayed waistband of Tom's jeans, brushing against his belly. "I wondered when we'd get to this." She's got a point: a year ago they'd never have eaten first.

"We have calmed down some, haven't we?" Her skin's so soft under the pads of his fingers. He's actually rather glad that they can be more leisurely now. He remembers their last reunion after a long separation, when she came down for the weekend a month after he moved to London. They were shaking with eagerness, unable to keep their hands off each other in the taxi from Kings Cross to that rattrap in Mile End he'd shared with friends-of-friends. He'd practically pulled her inside and had her against his bedroom door. They hardly left the room for two days, and that was saying a lot, as it had been a large pantry before someone figured out they could charge rent for it.

That was the weekend that swept away Tom's resolve to pay his own way at all times, as well as any doubts about it being too soon for them to move in together. He didn't want to live without Sybil anymore: it was as simple as that. And he wanted to give her better than a mattress on the floor in a windowless box of a room. Even if it meant accepting her help.

And now, especially _right _now, he's so very glad he did. It's been a wonderful year.

-o-

It's late and they've adjourned to the bed, bringing the wine but leaving the remnants of the baguette and cheese scattered on the table. They finish the bottle and Sybil says, "All right, I know you've got some whiskey around somewhere." So Tom pads into the kitchen, accompanied by Sybil's voice commanding him to bring glasses and ice, as well.

"What, you think I'm some kind of savage who drinks out of the bottle?" He calls back. He drops ice cubes into two glasses - freshly washed, by necessity - and balances them in one hand while he carries the bottle in the other.

"How do I know? This afternoon the place rather looked like Brendan Behan lived here."

"Oh, come now. You told me you weren't getting in until later," Tom retorts as he reenters the bedroom. "I was planning to tidy up." He climbs back into bed and pours them drinks. Sybil's sitting up in bed with the covers around her waist, and he imagines trickling a stream of whiskey over a pink-tipped breast. Licking it off.

She catches his look. "What?" Then she twigs and smirks at him over her glass. "You never stop, do you."

"Would you want me any other way? And you _are _naked. You can't fault me for looking."

"I suppose not," she allows, but she doesn't seem inclined to do anything with her whiskey other than drink it. She settles back against the pillows and pulls the covers up under her arms.

"You know what I was thinking about on tour?" She muses. "It's funny, but I miss volunteering at the hospital. I was just doing menial things, really. But I was helping people."

"And you enjoyed that?"

"I don't know if I _enjoyed_ it. It was satisfying, though. It was nice to get to the end of the day and be tired and feel as though I'd really _done _something." Ice clinks as she sips her drink. "Maybe I will go into nursing." She sighs. "Mum and Dad will be disappointed I'm not doing something more... prestigious."

"You should do what you want to do," Tom says. "And maybe you're selling them short. They've been civil enough to me, and I must be an awful disappointment for them." He grins at her.

Sybil snorts. "They've come round a bit now that you're a _journalist_. It's _terribly vulgar_, but at least it's not _dirty_." She delivers the last sentence with an exaggerated toff accent. The effect is especially comical as her voice is so posh to begin with.

"_You_ don't think it's vulgar, though?" He can't keep his voice from rising at the end, making it a question. He wonders if she knows how much he wants to be worthy of her admiration.

"No! Of course not." She sets down her drink and nestles close to him, her hand on his cheek, looking into his eyes. "Tom, you know I only want you to do what makes you happy."

"Right." _About that..._ "I've actually been thinking about trying to get a different job. I did some freelancing for the _Guardian _while you were gone." Tom understands Sybil's ambivalence about her current life: his original ambition to report on politics, conflict, the real stories, has been pulling at him.

"Oh?"

"Just a few things. But the editor liked them. He says I'm hungry." Sybil smiles, pride surging up in her. "He said he'd keep an eye out for a position, if I wanted to come on staff."

"That's great."

"I don't know, though. I'd have to travel. Depending on what I'm covering, it could even be dangerous."

She cocks an eyebrow. "More dangerous than interviewing Liam Gallagher?" Tom chuckles. "Seriously, though, sometimes you have to take a risk to get something worth having." _He of all people should know that._

"I know. But I have to think of you now. I don't want to make a decision without you having a say."

"Don't worry about me. You know what I think." She kisses him, then lies back. Tom lays his head on her chest and snuggles into her, curling his arm around her ribs.

"What a pair we'll be," he murmurs. "The nurse and the reporter."

"We're such romantic idealists." She plays with his hair, deciding whether to mention the other thing she thought so much about during her travels. _You have to take a risk to get something worth having_: she said it herself. "Tom?"

"Yeah?" She's silent so long that he lifts his head to look at her, then sits up at seeing her serious face. "What is it?"

"Do you think we should - would you want to..." She bites her lip. "Oh, sod it. Will you marry me?"

She doesn't know what reaction she expected. Certainly not laughter; _especially _not head-thrown-back, eyes-squeezed-shut, full-throated laughter. Sybil glares at her boyfriend.

"What?" She demands indignantly. "What's so funny?" She's starting to feel ridiculous. Is it that she was the one to propose? _He can't be a closet traditionalist. Can he?_

A few tears trickle from the corners of his eyes. "Nothing, nothing. I was..." He finally manages to get control of himself, the bastard. "I was just remembering what you told me when we first started going out." An errant giggle bubbles out. "How you didn't want a boyfriend. And now..." he smiles broadly at her, triumphant.

Sybil gives him a thunderous look. "Yes, yes, I remember." She folds her arms across her chest and rolls her eyes. "Well, you've won, Mr. Branson. I'm all yours. So just go ahead and laugh."

His face becomes serious. "Love, I'm not laughing at _you_. I'm sorry."

She pouts. "I'm still waiting for an answer. Though to be honest, I'm not sure which one I want anymore."

"_Yes_. Yes, my darling, I will marry you. God, of course I will." He enfolds her in his arms and kisses her, though she turns her head so that it lands on her cheek.

She can't help smiling, though. "You're sure?" she asks.

"It's all I want. We can go and knock up the registrar right now. I won't even put on my clothes."

Now Sybil has to laugh. She kisses him back, on the mouth this time. "It doesn't have to be quite as soon as that." She slides her hands around his shoulders and draws him towards her. "Besides, I can think of something else I'd rather do right now. And it does not involve putting on clothes."

So in their own way, they celebrate their engagement.

Afterward, Sybil's lazing pleasantly, almost dozing, when Tom speaks up: "Sybil?"

"Mm?"

"Do you, er... you don't want a big wedding, do you?"

"God, no."

She can hear the smile in his voice when he replies. "Good."

- really the end -

Appendix I: More Love Songs

Zombies: This Will Be Our Year

Roxy Music: Take a Chance with Me

Etta James: At Last

Mekons: Special

Talking Heads: Happy Day

The Damned: Love Song

The Jam: English Rose

Velvet Underground: I Found a Reason

Replacements: Hold My Life

Buzzcocks: Love You More

Elliott Smith: Say Yes

* * *

_AN: Thanks so much to everyone who has read, followed, favorited and/or reviewed this fic! I hope you've enjoyed it. I've had a wonderful time writing it. Obviously I've left some things open, so I may revisit this AU as the spirit moves me._


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